


Bad Cards

by cthulhu_is_chaotic_good



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhu_is_chaotic_good/pseuds/cthulhu_is_chaotic_good
Summary: Agent Mark Corwynn had thirteen years of experience working in the Special Operations division of MI6. And for the first time, he was questioning his career choices.
Comments: 179
Kudos: 405





	1. Chapter 1

Mark Corwynn had spent the past two decades of his life with MI6. The past thirteen of those years he had been with Special Operations, first as a desk lackey, then working as a field agent. He had successfully stopped a terrorist attack in central London seven years ago, and he would label himself fairly successful at what he did. He was thinking of retiring soon and getting serious with his long-term girlfriend, but he hadn't made any serious commitments yet. There was always time to think of the future. He was respected at MI6, or so he thought, and there was no point ending on a whim. Better to take time and think it over.

And then this assignment. Twenty years in the business and he had been assigned a kid younger than his career with MI6. Not even a kid – a child! He was wearing a schoolboy uniform when they’d first met.

And Mark would like to assume they were not being treated as equals on this mission, but Jones had introduced the boy as Mark’s partner.

The kid was nice enough. Polite. He had shaken Mark’s hand and introduced himself as Alex – the same name of his cover, ironically. And certainly Mark felt reassured that the kid who was providing him cover couldn’t even handle an assumed name.

Alex hadn’t been at Mark’s mission briefing, which was probably for the best. Mark didn’t trust the kid not to carelessly slip up on their job. Why Jones believed in a kid she didn’t bother to educate was anyone’s business.

The Irish business mogul Conan Walsh was suspected to have ties to a few dozen suspicious individuals. Mark was being given the cover of a suspiciously wealthy British man (David Windon), and MI6 had managed to get invitations for Windon and his son to a party at Walsh’s manor outside Dublin. His job was to personally meet Walsh and try to ingratiate himself with the man so the cover and mission could be continued later. Alex, playing Alex Windon, would be an excellent cover. MI6 suspected that Walsh knew MI6 and other groups were chasing him. An Irish agent had disappeared three months ago under suspicious circumstances, and his last known whereabouts had been Walsh’s summer home.

Walsh knew to not easily allow new people into his social circle. But a wealthy Brit with a teenaged son could be trustworthy. After all, what intelligence agency worth their salt would employ a teenager?

Mark internally sighed. It was almost showtime. Here’s to hoping the kid wouldn’t muck it all up.

He rapped on the door to Alex’s hotel room. “Ready, son?”

The door opened. The kid stepped out, in a dark blue suit. “Ready. Are we grabbing a taxi?”

“I have a limo booked.”

On the ride to the manor the kid played a game on his phone, with headphones plugged in. Mark recognized the phone as one of Smither’s altered iPhones by the phone case. Mark had a similar one, programmed with only a few saved numbers, including ‘Son’. He knew the kid’s had at least his number saved as ‘Dad’, from glancing at the phones when they got them yesterday evening before their flight to Dublin. How had the kid even had time to add music and games before the flight? And was the government paying for those games?

“Alex,” Mark said. The boy looked up from his phone at that. “Take your earphones out, will you son?”

Alex complied, looking at him skeptically. “We’ve barely talked,” Mark said. “You were buried in your phone the whole ride yesterday, and in your room today. Tell me, how’s school going?”

“It’s ok.”

“C’mon son, more than that.”

“No one calls their son ‘ _son’_ , dad.”

The kid was probably right, Mark ruefully admitted to himself. He hadn’t been around schoolkids much for the past decade and it showed. Oh well, all the better for their cover. Alex Windon lived with his mother most of the year anyway. This was supposed to be their bonding time.

“Have you been dating?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s good. Since you’re still young.” Suddenly Mark realized whatever cover the kid had been given to memorize, it probably wasn’t at detailed as ‘was he dating’. Alex was probably just answering with the truth. Did the kid have to do these awkward conversations with his own parents as well? Probably. Whatever sort of parents allowed their child to work as a cover for MI6 couldn’t be close to him. Not close enough to know the intricacies of their son’s life. Maybe they were a military couple who had enabled their son to have visions of glory. (Soon, Mark reflected, the kid would realize being a spy was tedious and lonely more than anything else).

Alex stared out the window.

“Ready for the party? I’ve heard Mr. Walsh has a lot of fun parties. Sometimes a couple a week.”

“Will there be many teenagers?”

“No, probably not. Still, there will be some fun. Maybe you can talk someone into playing a phone game with you. What’s popular these days, that Candy Crush I’ve heard about?”

“Sure.”

Mark gave up on conversation soon after, and Alex returned to his phone game.

They arrived at the manor’s gates soon after. Mark gave his name to the men watching the gate, and it opened to let the limo through. At the front of the manor, Mark and the driver exchanged numbers so they could coordinate pickup when they were done at the party while Alex got out of the car and looked around.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Mark asked.

The manor seemed to have four or five stories, with an elaborate façade and gardens stretching out around the front of the building to the gate in the distance. The manor was made of grey stone and had clearly been around longer than a few centuries.

“It’s nice,” Alex agreed with obvious disinterest. One of his headphones was still in, the other dangling loosely in the air.

“Put the headphones up. It’s time to make a good first impression.” That sounded like something Mark’s father would have said, if Mark had been a teenager at a time when smart phones existed. Mark almost smiled ruefully. Maybe he wouldn’t be a terrible father after all, despite what he’d been telling his girlfriend for ages.

The kid pulled his headphone out and wrapped the cord around his phone.

“Come on, let’s go see if there’s a couple other kids your age.” Mark clapped Alex on the shoulder and then led the way inside.

The entrance hall was grand. Wide archways opened into a grand dining room and a large living space. There were a few catering tables at the back of the dining room, and some people loitering with small plates or drinks throughout all the rooms he could see.

“Don’t drink a lot,” Mark cautioned. Someone help the kid if he got drunk and forgot his last name or assumed identity…

“I don’t drink,” Alex responded.

Well, that was a relief.

“Do you want to grab some food? I’ll make introductions.”

Alex shrugged and walked to grab a plate. Mark glanced at the people. There were a few security men loitering by the doors, a grand spiral staircase down the entrance hall that led upstairs, and a lot of mainly middle aged and older men and women standing in small groups and talking. Classical music was being piped through the rooms.

Several semi-covertly placed security cameras on the ceiling pointed in different directions. Mark noted it quickly and then went to introduce himself to a few men around his age. They made some jokes about the Irish weather and golf. Soon Alex joined the circle, gave his name, and then quietly stood and ate a shrimp cocktail while the adults talked.

Between conversations, Mark fetched glasses of wine from the drinks table. He was nearly finished with his second glass when he realized something was wrong. Where was Alex? Mark looked around the hall with increasing irritation. The entire point of having a schoolboy with him was to prove that he himself was a real person with a family. That was made more difficult with Alex having disappeared. Oh well, maybe he’d gone to the loo.

Moments later, he felt his pocket vibrate. A text. He opened the message and frowned.

_Walking the gardens. Staying out of sight. Don’t mention you have a teenaged son._

Right, don’t mention the main part of his cover that would show he was above suspicion of being a spy. If Mark had been irritated before, he was positively peeved now.

Mark continued to make the rounds, introducing himself to people, and carrying out brief conversations before he moved to another group. He had years of experience playing a boring business executive. Greet the executive, compliment their wife or girlfriend, comment on the travel from London to here, and remark on the beautiful manor they were in.

He was close to the door to the gardens when Alex reappeared, glancing around.

“Hey.”

“You disappeared. I was worried about you.” It was a perfectly fatherly statement. Anyone would take it as a concerned father’s sentiments to his son, instead of his true barely repressed annoyance that the child couldn’t do his one job.

Alex kept glancing around, surreptitiously. “The gardens are really nice. Let me show you some of them.”

Mark followed Alex outside, past a fountain where an elderly couple were talking, and into a small hedge maze. “I think we’re long past a point where someone could overhear us,” Mark said dryly.

Alex stopped and turned around. “I saw someone who knows me.”

“You saw someone who knows you. Like a friend from school?”

“No.” Alex crossed his arms. “But he knows who I am, and if he knows that we came together, he’ll have a pretty good idea of who you are too.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“God, no!” Alex said.

“Calm down.” Mark reprimanded.

The kid nodded and took a deep breath. “Sorry, yeah. But I promise that wasn’t an overreaction. If he sees me, you have to swear you won’t say you’re with me.”

“Not a good guy, I’m guessing.” Mark examined the kid. At least Alex wasn’t openly panicking. The last thing Mark needed was to complete a mission while reassuring a child. “What’s he look like? Are you sure he’d recognize you? This isn’t someone you bumped into once and think they might recognize you?”

“He knows who I am,” Alex said. “He’s blond, blue eyes, you’re a bit taller than him.”

“Any recognizable scars? Walks with a limp? Fearsomely ugly or incredibly handsome?” Mark smiled, ready to reassure the kid.

It didn’t work. Alex stared at him, hard. “You don’t want to meet him.”

Mark held two hands up in a placating fashion. “Bad guy, blond, blue eyes, shorter than me. Got it. If I see him, run away.”

“You’ll swear you don’t know me.”

“Alright, I’ll swear I won’t know you. I’m going to head back inside and make some new friends. Are you going to join me or keep wandering the garden? It’s cold out here.”

Alex shrugged. “I have a job to do. I’ll do it.”

Wasn’t his job to stay with Mark? Apparently not.

“Well, stay out of trouble.” Mark headed back inside.

The kid knew someone at a house party probably funded by a criminal. Not only that, whoever he knew would recognize him in turn. Not for the first time Mark figured that this assignment would be twice as easy without the nuisance of a teenager.

-AR-

The problem with trying to recognize someone you’d never met based on only a few vague clues was that plenty of people met those criteria. For example, the last three out of five businessmen and other guests Mark had spoken to were blond with blue eyes. One of them had been taller than himself, ruling that man out. To be on the safe side, Mark avoided mentioning his ‘son’ in any of his conversations. Not that Alex would have helped him, because Conan Walsh was nowhere to be seen. Mark had, in his conversations, travelled all around the first floor of the mansion. Walsh was not there.

“I was invited here to meet Conan Walsh, but I haven’t met anyone that goes by that name,” Mark remarked to the couple he was conversing with.

“Oh, Conan will be upstairs, playing poker,” replied the woman in the pair. She smiled at her husband. “Sometimes Paul joins, but we’re abstaining tonight.”

“Poker?” Mark inquired.

“Conan loves the game. He’d play all day everyday if it was a choice. I think he’s having a game night tomorrow. We might attend that.”

“Does he allow new players to join?”

“As long as you pay in,” Paul replied with a laugh. “They’re playing for small stakes tonight.”

Mark smiled, made small talk for a few minutes more, then politely extricated himself from the conversation and headed upstairs.

If he’d been expecting a den of sin or casino feel, he would be wrong.

There were perhaps 50 people in a large room with four round tables, three of them full of people and one full of poker chips, in the middle. A handful of observers sat on stuffed chairs around the outside of the room. Jazz music played in the background.

A man in a costume like the server’s outfits walked up and introduced himself to Mark. Mark listened to a small spiel about the buy in, and a small donation to charity that was required of every player. Mark exchanged the equivalent of 500 pounds into poker chips and went to join the only table with an opening. Unfortunately, it was not Walsh’s table.

Mark recognized one or two of the players at his table from his earlier conversations and reintroduced himself before the next game began.

There was a quote Mark liked about luck _: The only sure thing about luck is that it will change._ Over the next handful of games Mark had a round of rotten luck, one or two rounds he may have been able to win with more bluff, and enough luck to win two games.

He had a decent handful of chips in front of him by the seventh game. Mark examined his hand. Two pair, but they were twos and fives. Potentially a winning hand. It depended on the other players, as always.

Mark heard the boy before he saw him.

“Let go, I’m supposed to be here.” Mark’s head whipped around to see his supposed cover be roughly manhandled into the door by an armed member of the mansion’s security. The teenager yanked himself free of the guard’s grasp.

“I was just walking around,” Alex insisted, taking a step back from the guard into the room. Mark prepared to stand and explain that his son was a troubled individual. And then the boy turned around and froze. Mark could pinpoint the exact moment Alex’s expression changed from one of righteous indignation into something suspiciously close to fear.

Mark followed the boy’s gaze across the room. A slim, pale man stood up casually. He didn’t look like one of the security team. Like most of the other members of the room, he was wearing a suit. He had been sitting at the edge of the room, observing the game closest to him. He was blond, with blue eyes, and slightly shorter than Mark himself. Mark stayed seated.

“What’s this?” Walsh asked.

“He was upstairs, in your private quarters,” the man who had escorted Alex inside said.

Walsh looked at the teenager. “Who are you here with?”

“I’m here with myself.” Alex said.

“I didn’t invite any teenagers to my party,” Walsh responded. Alex didn’t respond, his eyes still watching the blond man.

Mark looked around the room. The music in the background was still playing, but there was no other noise. The room was captivated by the teenage intruder.

The blond man spoke for the first time, to the security man. “I’ll find out who he belongs to. Tell the gate guards not to let anyone leave for the meantime.”

“I didn’t touch anything, and I’m leaving now.” Alex said. “You’re not the police.”

“We’ll go next door and call them,” the blond man said. His tone was perfectly calm.

Mark watched the teenager’s eyes wander to the bystanders. His gaze skipped right by Mark.

“Does anyone know him?” Walsh asked.

The room was silent until one of the drunken businessmen slurred out a comment. “Check him for valuables. He’s probably fueling a drug habit.”

“I didn’t steal anything. If I turn out my pockets can I go?” The indignant tone was back. The teenager glared around the room. Mark had to hand it to the kid; he wasn’t a bad actor. Unless his fear really did vanish as quickly as a drunk’s first beer.

“That may help,” Not a Good Guy said mildly. “We can do that next door.”

“All I have is a phone.” Alex turned his pants pockets inside out and held up his phone. His headphones fell to the ground.

“May I see it? To reassure myself it is yours.”

“It’s locked.” The teenager said.

The blond man reached out for the phone. “That’s fine.”

The teenager stepped back and then threw his phone as hard as he could again the far wall.

A couple of the people playing poker laughed nervously. Mark looked at Marsh. His face was rapidly turning purple. A woman in a glitzy red dress stood up to retrieve the phone. She held it nervously. The slim man walked across the room to retrieve it. He looked at the screen and then pocketed the phone.

Mark looked in alarm at Alex.

“We’ll go next door to handle this.” The blond man said once again.

“I’ll stay here, thanks.”

Fuck, the kid had to think whatever awaited him next door was bad. Better to stay here and make a scene, apparently.

“Get him out of here,” the second drunk man demanded. “I’ll help if you need.” He stood up and walked unsteadily to the teenager.

“I don’t want to punch a drunk man,” Alex said.

The blond man raised an eyebrow. He took a step away from the teenager, as if inviting the others in the room to take care of the problem for him.

“Enough,” a large man with a faint Eastern European accent stepped into the center of the room. Alex took a few steps back until he was against the wall, and the Eastern European stepped forward and clamped a thick hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s walk next door and the police can help you figure this out when they get here.”

“Don’t touch me,” Alex snapped. Despite his protests, however, he didn’t fight back.

The Eastern European forced Alex to the door he’d come through, then shoved him through. “Your scene is over.”

The blond man stepped forward, nodded at the Eastern European, and walked into the next room. He shut the door behind him.

“My apologies,” Walsh said. His face was still a deep shade of violet. “This is why I don’t invite teenagers to my parties.”

There was a scattering of awkward laughter before the table closest to the exit resumed play. Mark turned back to his table, thinking fast. The gates had been closed, so he couldn’t just leave. And he couldn’t leave anyway, because the kid was maybe 16 and with a man he had all but described as a ‘bad guy’.

There were cameras in the building. Soon they would know who had entered the mansion with Alex. Mark had to leave, now, and get MI6 or their Irish allies here as soon as possible. He would play a couple more rounds of the game then cash out and find a way out before Walsh’s men could trace him.

There was a series of vibrations in his pocket. Mark reached for it and turned the phone over. ‘Son’ was written across the scene. Mark felt his heart thud. He looked at his phone, unsure of what to do. The phone stopped vibrating as the call ended. Mark put the phone down. The vibrations began again. By now several people at the table were looking at Mark. “Pardon me, this is my wife. I’ll be right back.”

“Sir, we’ve already started the game,” the croupier said.

Mark put his cards down, face down. “I’ll be out for this round. Whoever wins can keep my chips.”

Mark swiped to accept the call and headed to the hallway to hear.

“Hello,” Mark said.

“Modern phones aren’t always as easy to break as your partner would like.” It was the man who had left with Alex. His voice was calm.

“Who is this?”

“Ask any security personnel you see to take you to the 3rd floor living quarters to pick up your son.”

“Or what?”

There was a quiet moment. Mark heard his heart thump. “I imagine your phone receives pictures?” The blond man asked.

“Yes.”

“Be here in 5 minutes, or I will start to send a few.” The man didn’t clarify what would be in the photos, and Mark didn’t ask. The phone call ended.

Mark walked back to his table, dread laying heavy on him. The solution should be obvious. One spy is captured – the other walks away. But none of Mark’s training included leaving a kid to die. And Mark was desperate not to find out what those pictures would comprise of.

What were his chances? On one hand, the Irish intelligence officer had apparently vanished a while back, not to reappear. On the other, the kid said the blond man knew him. If they knew each other and the man hadn’t killed the kid when they met, maybe this situation wasn’t as dire as Mark suspected. Unless the kid had been in a different cover last time they met, and simply by being in a different cover this time was how the man would know Alex couldn’t be trusted.

Mark collected his chips and brought them to the attendant to cash them out. He pocketed the change and went to find a member of the security staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry; the story is not entirely in Mark's POV. But I always wonder what other agents - adult agents - think of having a kid assigned as their 'cover' for missions. So I thought I'd play around with the concept a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is torture in this chapter. It is slightly above the level of description given in canon.

The member of security led Mark to a closed door on the third floor. Mark thanked the man then knocked and was bid to enter.

It was a small room, with two couches and armchairs placed around a television. The blond man was standing behind a couch across the room, facing the door.

Mark frowned uneasily. “I’m here to pick up my son.”

“Yes,” the man agreed. “Close the door.”

Mark closed the door behind himself and walked into the room. “Where is he?”

The man nodded at the armchair across from himself.

Mark took a few steps forward into the middle of the room and turned to see Alex, slumped back in an armchair, arms folded across his chest. Mark coughed awkwardly and nodded. “He’s, uh, a troubled young man. Thanks for finding him, and I can certainly smooth this over with Mr. Walsh if you need.”

“That would be best. Take a seat.”

“I would, but my son and I need to be going soon. We have a driver waiting for us.”

The blond man shrugged. “We can solve that. Call your driver and say he is not needed for the rest of tonight.”

“Then how will we get back to our hotel?”

The man’s expression sharpened. “Call your driver. Tell him he is no longer needed.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Do it.” Mark turned to see Alex staring pointedly at nowhere. “Do it, or he’ll make you,” the teenager repeated.

“I’m sure we can figure this out.” Mark glanced back at the slim man. “How much do you need to clear this over? We need to be on our way. I’m not calling my driver off, I’m afraid.”

The man lifted his shirt enough to reveal the partial outline of a gun. “Now,” the man said calmly.

Mark glanced at the teenager. What the hell had Alex gotten them involved in?

He opened his phone and dialed the driver.

“Put it on speakerphone.”

Mark did. The conversation with the driver was short. The man had been paid ahead of time and wasn’t about to complain about getting out of work early.

“Put your phone on the table.” The man waited until Mark had, then instructed further, “Take a seat.”

Mark walked to one of the couches and sat. The kid moved his head to watch Mark’s movement.

“Are you hurt?” Mark asked.

Alex didn’t respond.

“He’s unharmed. That will change quickly if you move.” The blond man considered them. “Mr. Walsh will be here when his party finishes.”

-AR-

Did MI6 know that Yassen Gregorovich was going to be here? Did they suspect it?

Alex should have made them leave. Fuck MI6. He should have abandoned the mission the moment he saw the familiar blond hair, blue eyes, and dancer-like gait of the man across from him now. Jones hadn’t even told him why MI6 needed evidence on Conan Walsh; there was a nonzero chance the man wasn’t even a threat that would impact Alex’s day to day life. Let the bad guys win one. Jack was alive, SCORPIA was dismantled, there hadn’t been a nuclear winter over most of Europe or an artificial drought in Africa. Couldn’t that be enough?

It would have to be. Alex would be dead soon.

Seconds ticked by. Alex would have watched his watch but Yassen had taken it the moment they were out of Walsh’s poker room.

Mark shifted. Alex tensed.

“I have close to a thousand pounds in my wallet. It’s yours if we walk out of here now,” Agent Corwynn said.

Yassen said nothing. His gaze was impassive.

“This has been interesting, and I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but my son and I are going to leave now.” Mark stood up and gestured for Alex to do the same. “Alex, let’s go.”

Alex met Yassen’s eyes. Neither of them moved.

The older agent took a step forward, expression determined. “Alex,” he repeated, sounding impatient.

“I will shoot Alex if you take another step.”

“No, you won’t.” Mark sounded self-assured.

Were all MI6 agents incompetent?

“He really will,” Alex said.

Mark hesitated.

“Sit down,” Yassen said quietly.

Time passed at a snail’s pace. Alex would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered begging or claiming his father’s memories. But after the destruction of SCORPIA, and a year where Yassen had never reached out or let him know he was alive, it was pointless. A man who cared would have done more by now.

A man who really cared wouldn’t put a child in a pit with a bull or killed the brother of the man he claimed to love.

Mark already thought Alex was a joke. There was no need to confirm it by begging.

Three men walked through the door. Two personal bodyguards, if Alex was guessing, and the man himself. Conan Walsh.

The two bodyguards stood on either side of the door. Walsh stood in the middle of them. He was a balding, older man. He wore a Rolex and a dark burgundy tie under his jacket. Alex caught his eye, and was reminded of the multitudes of other powerful, rich psychopaths that had tried to kill him in elaborate and painful ways. Walsh was considering Alex as if he wasn’t a person, but a toy to play with. And then the man’s dark eyes left Alex and took in his hired gun.

“Explain, Gregorovich.”

“You’re being tracked by MI6. These two were masquerading as a father and son.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Walsh rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Good.”

“This is a mistake,” Mark protested. “My son is only fifteen. We were invited. My name is David Windon, and my son is Alex.”

“They aren’t related,” Yassen responded.

Walsh laughed delightedly. “After that schoolboy interrupted my game, I was considering having him maimed in a ghastly way. This makes the decision easier.” He met Corwynn’s eyes. “David Windon? I heard his name for the first time two months ago. I suppose him being fake would explain that.” He clapped his hands together. “Well, let’s get on with it. I want to know what they know.”

“Nothing,” Mark argued. “We know nothing. Let us go now, or we really will go to MI6, and tell them how a child was threatened.”

“Take your watch, tie, and shoes off,” Yassen said. “And turn your pockets out.”

Mark stalled for a minute and took his wallet out and tossed it on the table, kicked his shoes off, and gently placed his watch on the coffee table with his phone and wallet.

“What do you know? Answer me, or things will get fun for me,” Walsh said with an expression that indicated he would enjoy the _fun_ immensely.

“We don’t know anything.”

Walsh smirked. “Gregorovich?”

The assassin’s gaze shifted between Alex and Mark before settling on Mark. “Alex, if you move, I will do the same thing to you.” He beckoned to the two bodyguards near the door. “Hold him.”

The two hulking figures stepped forward to surround Agent Corwynn. One stepped behind the couch he was in and braced his hands on Corwynn’s shoulders. The other stood beside the agent and grabbed his left hand.

“Are you right-handed?” Yassen asked.

Corwynn swore.

Alex predicted the move and looked away the moment before it happened. He could still hear the crack of the bone, and the following scream. _Fuck._

“What is your name?”

There was no response, and Alex closed his eyes and clenched his fists around the armrests of the chair.

Another crack and muted scream followed.

 _What do you know? What were you looking for? What is your name?_ Each question was punctuated with a brutal sound and a rough scream. Alex’s arms were feeling the strain of clutching as hard as he was to the chair.

The ragged gasps coming from the corner covered the sound of footsteps. And then a cool hand was forcing Alex’s head to turn.

“Open your eyes.”

Alex didn’t, for a second. There was a sudden silence as the ragged gasps stopped.

Alex’s eyes flew open to see Mark being strangled by one of the bodyguards. The bodyguard caught Alex’s horrified expression and released the older agent.

“Alex.” Yassen tugged Alex’s face up and to the left until their eyes locked. “I will do the same thing to your hand, and then the next one. I will have your hand crushed with a hammer and then cut off a few of your fingers.” He let go of Alex’s chin and tapped next to his right eye. “And then I will move to your face.” Alex flinched back. “Unless you share what you know now, all of this will happen. And if you manage to make it through all of that, I will go back to your partner. It will continue until I know everything you know, and then perhaps it will continue some more, as a consequence for wasting my time.”

“Don’t,” Mark struggled to say. The bodyguard behind him dug a thumb into his throat. Somewhere on the other side of the room, Walsh laughed.

“Help me with him.” Gregorovich offered to the second guard.

The guard released Mark’s mangled hand. Alex pressed himself back against the chair.

“His right hand,” Yassen said.

Tears pricked the back of Alex’s eyes. He held the armchair tightly, but it only lasted a few seconds before the guard was holding his arm in the air. Alex formed his hands into fists. Yassen grabbed his hand.

“They wanted me to bug the estate,” Alex gasped. Yassen released his hand.

“Alex!”

“Fuck you!” Alex snarled at Mark. He was the adult; he had a choice. He wasn’t the one being threatened.

“Did you?” Yassen asked.

Alex looked everywhere around the room. He wanted an escape even as he knew there wasn’t one. “Yes.”

“Where did you put them?”

“I don’t know…there were several.”

“Describe where you put them.”

Alex did. In the background Mark refuted the claims, and Yassen quieted Alex long enough for the room to pause and watch the first bodyguard strangle the older agent for a minute – long enough to hurt him, not long enough to kill him.

“Is that all?” Walsh asked idly after Alex had described thirteen locations throughout the building. “The fact that you managed to get around all of the cameras is impressive, I’ll give you. What did you do, climb up the outside walls into my bedroom?”

“That’s all.” _Yes. After throwing a rock to disable the camera pointed down that side of the building._

“What else did you know?” Yassen asked.

“They didn’t tell me anything – just to bug the house. That’s the truth.”

“If I find more than, what, thirteen bugs, I’ll,” Walsh started.

“Kill me twice?” Alex interrupted.

Walsh flushed. Yassen placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder – a wordless threat, if Alex had ever known one.

“Aren’t you clever,” the man said at last.

Alex forced a sneer. “My teachers always said so.”

Walsh gave an ugly leer. “Yes, well. What to do with you.” He paced the room for a minute. “I had an Irish agent here a few months ago,” he said. “He was a great guest. I customized a room for him and everything. What do you think Gregorovich, should I keep one of them?”

Yassen released Alex’s shoulder. “Alex has a bad habit of disrupting plans,” he said. “But he’s a valuable hostage.”

“And I want him to pay if he lied about the bugs,” Walsh contemplated.

“Keep the older one as well and you can keep Alex in check.” Yassen looked at Mark. “What is your real name?”

“You don’t need to know,” Mark replied without emotion.

Alex didn’t see anyone give a signal, but suddenly Mark was being strangled yet again. His unbroken hand reached for the arm around his throat and tugged at it desperately.

“Do you know?” Yassen asked him.

_Yes._

“I-“Alex trailed off, watching Mark’s face.

“Now would be the time to give it to us.”

Alex watched in horror. “You’re killing him!” No one answered him. Mark was clearly seconds from passing out.

“Mark Corwynn!”

The guard released Mark. He doubled over, struggling for breath and coughing.

“Keep Alex,” Yassen said. “Or both. But Alex is the more cooperative one.”

Walsh paced for a few more moments.

“Both,” he said at last. “I have my next party tomorrow, and a lone teenager sends more confusing messages than a father-son pair. And Alex has some apologizing to do, for interrupting my poker game tomorrow.”

No one responded to this, yet Walsh seemed appeased. “Keep them both. That’s my decision.”

Yassen nodded. “Put them in the same room?”

“As the Irish agent? Yes.”

“They’ll need a guard. The door could be kicked down.”

“Have Connor watch the door,” Walsh said. “I’m ready for a laydown. Deal with them, and I want them ready to go by tomorrow night.” Walsh turned and left, with his second bodyguard trailing behind him. The bodyguard behind Mark—Connor, Alex assumed— walked around to the door and waited there. Yassen pulled out his gun and gestured with it for them to both follow.

Alex spotted what he guessed to be the modification to the room they were led to right away. There was a lock on the outside of the door.

“Inside,” Yassen said. Alex reached for the handle and opened it.

There was no handle on the inside of the door.

Alex led Mark inside, and the door was closed behind them.

It was a massive bedroom, largely empty of amenities. There was a king-sized bed with a night table next to it, a closet with no doors, and a closed door at the end of the room. There were iron grates over the two large windows.

Alex walked to the closed door and opened it. There was a spacious restroom inside, with a shower, toilet, and sink.

No window.

Fuck.

Alex went back into the main room.

Mark had dropped against the wall, cradling his right hand. Despite everything his face was calm.

“Are you…” Alex trailed off. No, he wasn’t alright. He’d had every finger in his right hand broken for information because Yassen Gregorovich was a monster who regularly worked for sociopaths attempting to take over the world. And Mark hadn’t given any information away, despite the torture.

Alex had.

He fought the sick feeling in his stomach. MI6 didn’t get to drag a child with no more than a half day’s worth of RTI training into actual danger and then get upset when he crumbled.

“I’m fine,” Mark said emotionlessly.

“Sure,” Alex said sarcastically before he thought it through.

The absolute venom in Mark’s expression could have killed.

“And no one even fucking touched you and you squealed like a pig,” the man snarled. “What, did you think being a spy would be fun? Did your mum and dad have connections? They wanted you to have a fun time and boost your resume?”

Alex schooled his expression. “No.”

Mark glared at Alex with the rage that was only induced from pain. “And how do you know that man? The blond one?”

“His name is Yassen Gregorovich. He’s a hired killer. He used to work for SCORPIA.” That didn’t answer the question, but Alex wasn’t prepared to go that far.

“And how do you _know_ this hired killer?” Mark insisted.

“We’ve run into each other before.” Alex sunk to the floor against the bedframe. _My father trained him and then he killed my uncle and saved my life from a madman once or twice and also I tried to kill him once_ didn’t have the same ring, and Alex decided he preferred his version. Especially because his version didn’t imply that the only reason Alex was even alive was due to this killer.

“You’ve run into a hired killer for SCORPIA.” Mark’s tone was hard to interpret.

“Yes.”

“Any other details you want to give me?”

Alex shook his head. “No.”

“Well, at least you’re good for something. I have a name now.”

Good for something? “I saved your life.”

Mark stared. “You saved my life? Is that what you call it?”

Alex felt his anger rising. “Is that what I call you getting strangled until I say something that _stops_ you from getting strangled? Yeah, I’d call it that. You’re welcome.”

“You put my family at risk!” Mark snapped. “Did you think of that, you posh, spoiled brat?”

No. He hadn’t thought of that, because all he had was Jack, and she was currently in a safehouse somewhere in Wales.

Mark must have read his face, because he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said.

Neither of them said anything else for a long while.

-AR-

The agony had diminished, but the throbbing, constant, ever-present _pain_ was still there. Mark had broken his arm when he was a child, and his toe during basic training. Those had hurt, but not like this. Not like five fingers, broken purposely and with intent to hurt.

Mark stared out the window, watching a few birds fly around the foliage of the vast gardens surrounding the mansion. The sun was bright overhead, indicating that it was nearly midday.

He heard the door open with a creak. Mark turned around.

“Don’t wake the kid; he just got to sleep.”

Gregorovich glanced at the bed, where the child had passed out maybe an hour ago. “I don’t need him awake.”

“What do you want?” Best to get to the point.

“There’s a doctor downstairs. He’s not going to ask questions, and you’re not going to say anything about the source of your injuries.”

The doctor was, as Gregorovich had said, incurious. He prodded the fingers, set them against splints, and wrapped each finger in a cast.

“Put the whole hand in a cast. Make it look like an accident,” his torturer said.

Subtle.

At least there were pain pills. Mark had expected Gregorovich to protest the pills, as a means to keep Mark too riddled with his afflictions to fight back. To his surprise, Gregorovich hadn’t cared.

When he was dropped back off in the room, the killer left him with a piece of paper and a pencil.

“You and Alex need to write down your suit sizes and shoe sizes. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”

“Fine,” Mark said, clutching the pencil and paper with his left hand.

And then the killer was gone without a backwards glance.

Mark tried to wake the kid gently. It wasn’t fair to the child; how harsh Mark had been last night. Mark disagreed with MI6 about his mission partner being 15 (according to the briefing – who knew how old Alex was) but that wasn’t the child’s fault.

Alex’s eyes opened almost as soon as Mark touched his shoulder.

“Hey, kid, I need your shoe size and suit size. Written on this piece of paper.” Mark held it out. Alex sighed and took the paper, scribbled some numbers down, and handed it back.

“Is there any food?” Alex asked.

“No.”

“Usually my captors feed me. Oh well. There’s always ritualistic cannibalism.” Alex put his head back on his pillow.

“Usually?” Mark asked, trying to resist mocking the child.

Alex picked his head up to glance at him. “You have a cast on your arm.”

“They want it to look like an accident,” Mark said. “No idea why.”

Alex pulled himself into a sitting position. “Yeah, that’s a typical accident. All the fingers in a hand broken. Happened to me once when I fell off a swing.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.” Alex stared at the cast a minute longer. “Do you need me to write your sizes as well? Do they need that?”

“It’d be helpful.” Mark gave his sizes and Alex wrote them down. “I did check for bugs in here earlier. I don’t think there are any, if that’s helpful.”

“Sure,” Alex said. “When I have an escape plan, I’ll let you know.”

Mark smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry you’re here.”

“Me too.” The kid sounded honest. Then again, why wouldn’t he be? He’d nearly been tortured himself last night. Psychologically he had been.

“Your parents worrying about you right now?”

“No.” The boy didn’t elaborate, and Mark wondered again why an English schoolboy was in Ireland stalking a terrible person. And how did he respond to that?

“I’m sure someone is worried about you.”

“Someone is.”

Good, good. At least someone cared about the kid. Of course, what this probably meant was that, someone cared enough to grieve the lack of a body when months went by and neither Mark nor Alex reappeared.

Mark hesitated awkwardly. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“I want to go home,” the child said.

“Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

The door opened not long after Alex found himself drifting off again. From a long distance away, he heard a voice he wouldn’t forget anytime soon asking a question, but the words didn’t make sense. Another, unfamiliar voice answered. Time passed.

The familiar voice was now much closer. “Wake him up.”

There was a tap at Alex’s shoulder. “Alex?”

His eyes opened before his brain registered what was happening, but it didn’t take long to make sense of the picture. Yassen was holding a folded piece of paper – the one with their clothing sizes, Alex would guess. Mark was standing next to the bed, exhaustion clear on his face.

Alex focused on Yassen.

“Thirteen bugs?” Yassen inquired mildly.

“Yes.”

“If you change your answer now, it will be easier for you.”

Alex bit the curse off before it left his tongue. “There were 13 bugs. You found 13 bugs; I told you exactly where they were, you found them, and if you found any extras, congratulations, you have a problem besides MI6. But they gave me 13.”

The nod Yassen gave could be interpreted in a number of ways. Alex didn’t allow himself to think on any of them long.

“Anything else?”

Yassen raised an eyebrow. Probably at Alex’s tone. He turned to Mark. “Someone will be by with suits and shoes shortly. Get dressed then. Don’t let him sleep in them.” He left without further comment.

“Better not be a fucking matador’s outfit,” Alex muttered.

Alex turned to see Mark staring at him.

“What?” Alex asked. He didn’t bother to disguise the annoyance in his tone.

“MI6 really hired you to plant bugs,” Mark said, his voice flat.

“Yes.” _It will be challenging to avoid observation, Alex, but necessary._

The Englishman kept gazing at him. “Your cover said that you’re 15.”

Jones’ people had been lazy this time around. The cover had been minimal, and details about his personal health and life were mostly copied from Alex’s own file. Probably because ‘David Windon’ having a son had been a last-minute addition to try and cover Mark’s story behind a gate of plausible lies that precluded Mark from being a spy. “They kept some things about my life the same.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Did he expect Alex to argue that point? None of the past year should have happened. Alex shrugged and changed the subject. “Do you want the bed?”

Judging from the sun’s position in the sky outside, it was several hours later when Mark woke Alex back up to a hanger with a fresh suit.

“They dropped off soap, shampoo, a brush, toothbrushes, dental floss, and toothpaste as well. And a Rolex. And cologne.”

“Great. I’m sure my dentist will appreciate their help in keeping my dental hygiene up,” Alex commented. “Did they drop off fresh socks as well? Underwear too?”

“Yes to socks. No to underwear.”

“Ah well. I’ll survive.” Alex smiled wryly. “It’s ironic, because I fully expect to be dead in a day.” Mark didn’t object to that statement.

In fact, Mark looked, despite his age, lost. “Should we get ready?”

Alex showered and dressed first. He had shadows under his eyes from staying up all night, but otherwise he looked, well, presentable. Like an older teenaged schoolboy dressed up for a formal affair.

“Bathroom’s yours,” Alex said, settling on the ground against the wall. He leaned against the wall and rested while he heard the shower running in the background. What did he know about this madman of the month? What did he need to know to escape?

The man liked poker. He was quick to anger, but then again, weren’t they all. He lived in a luxurious manor in Ireland, his home country. He was a sadist. He had laughed yesterday as Mark’s fingers were broken.

And that was it. Not much to go on.

Alex stood and walked to where the shoes were lining against the wall. The Rolex balanced on one of the shoes. Alex picked it up and turned it over, considering.

The restroom door opened.

“Kid,” Mark said. He sounded ragged. “Can I get some help?”

Alex turned. Mark was dressed but his stiff white shirt was unbuttoned.

“My hand,” Mark said. He trailed off. Alex’s eyes, unbidden, went to the man’s cast.

“Yeah,” Alex replied.

One of the men who’d restrained Mark came for them soon after then. He held a gun on them and brought them to the first-floor formal dining room. The banquet table was set, and elegant floral arrangements were a centerpiece at the end of the table. A bar was set up at the end of the room. And in front of the bar, Conan Walsh was standing at the head of the table, holding a glass half filled with an amber liquid. Yassen was sitting at a chair on the edge of the room, looking at his phone.

“Alex and Mark,” the man said. “I assume a first name basis is fine?”

Mark replied that it was.

Walsh beamed. “I thought it may be. As you are both guests in my house, I would hate for you both to feel restrained. And I am hosting a bit of a game night tonight. I thought perhaps you could join us?”

Yes, the man who’d had them locked in a room since last night would hate for them to feel restrained.

“I’m not sure we’re of the same caliber as your guests. We might embarrass you,” Alex said.

“That’s what the suits are for. They’re new, fitted to your sizes. And you both do look dashing.”

“The watch was a nice touch,” Alex said. “Really giving us the appearance of wealth, aren’t you?”

“I thought you’d appreciate a taste of the nicer stuff. It’s more than your salary affords, I’d imagine.” Walsh took a sip of his whisky. “Does the government pay children?”

“Good question. I’ll have to ask them when I get home.”

Walsh smiled at the words. “Very good. Now, I do worry that what you meant when you said you’d embarrass me is that you might misbehave. Tell other guests that you’re here with MI6 for example. Or what specifically happened to your hand. I wouldn’t worry on that. On the advice of my council, I have a system in place.” Walsh pointed between Alex and Mark with his small finger. “Whichever of you two misbehaves, I’ll have the other hurt.”

Yassen, Alex assumed, was that council.

Almost on cue, the assassin stood and pocketed his phone.

“Let’s get our story straight, shall we? Mark, you hurt your hand in an accident. I don’t think anyone will pry more than that, but if they do, shall we say you were playing sports? You’re a reasonably fit man. Probably a requirement for the job. People will believe you play sports. Anyway, we met last night for the first time, and offered you to stay a few nights at my place after a misunderstanding with your son.” Walsh eyed Alex. “Some of my guests are liable to remember your act, bursting into our game last night. I’d say it’s generous of me to allow your family to stay here after such a scene. Have humility.”

“I’ll be the humblest person you’ve ever met,” Alex replied quickly.

Walsh pointed at the other end of the table. “You’ll be sitting down there. Find your names. My guests will be arriving soon. Put on a bright face, order a drink, and take a seat.”

-AR-

The pain medication had never fully masked the pain, and now, hours later, the medication had completely worn off. Mark schooled his face. He wasn’t weak. He had passed RTI three times now.

Walsh had gone to the front hall to greet people as they trickled in. Several people were now seated around the long banquet table, although no one was directly next to them yet. Mark was sitting at the base of the table, with Alex right next to him. The name cards in front of them said David Windon and Alex Windon. There was a name card next to Alex’s that said Dimitri Lucas.

“They’re playing poker after this?” Alex guessed.

“I assume.”

There was a name card next to Alex’s that said Dimitri Lucas. Gregorovich took a seat. “Talk to each other,” he suggested quietly.

The child rolled his eyes. “You know a singer I really hate?”

Who were kids into these days? “Katy Perry?” Mark guessed.

“That guy with the Christmas album. He really hated drugs. Do you know who I’m talking about?”

This…was certainly making conversation. But Mark had no idea where the kid was going with this topic. “Elvis?”

“He died of a drug overdose. I think the guy I’m thinking of was a bit self-obsessed. Flew too close to the sky. Or maybe a plane engine.” The kid looked at Gregorovich. “Any ideas?”

“Ricky Nelson,” the hitman replied, clearly unimpressed with the kid’s conversation.

“He died in a plane crash,” Mark offered. “I don’t know if he had a Christmas album, but he did have a Christmas song.”

“Never heard of him,” Alex said. “Changing topics, I wonder if the singer I was thinking of or our host tonight would throw a better party. Or pay better. Do you have thoughts on that one?”

“I think they would both pay very well.”

Was this a connection to how they knew each other? Mark looked between the two, unsure how to proceed. Gregorovich’s gaze shifted beyond them and he smiled pleasantly at an approaching couple. Mark recognized them. He’d spoken to them briefly last night. The woman next to Gregorovich and the man beside her.

“We met last night, but I’m terrible with names. Let’s reintroduce ourselves. I’m Paul,” the man said, extending his hand across the table for Mark to shake. “Oh, I see,” Paul quickly recovered, seeing the cast.

“Bad accident,” Mark apologized. “David , and this is my son, Alex.”

“Esther,” the woman said.

“Nice to meet you,” Mark replied.

“Have you been to one of Conan’s game nights before?” Esther asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Well you’re in for a night. They’re always fun. Are you missing school to be here?” the woman asked Alex.

“It’s a holiday.”

“I have to say, you’re a lot younger than anyone I’ve met here before.” Esther took Alex in, and smiled fondly. “My sister has a son your age.”

“My dad and I are staying here for the week. Is anything else like this happening later in the week?”

“There’s another game night next Friday,” Paul said.

“I’ll see you then too, I guess.”

Another couple sat down next to Mark, and a series of conversations ensued. At a certain point Walsh stood at the head of the table, thanked everyone for coming last night and tonight, and then invited them to dig in before the games. Several courses were served by waiters in black tie. Mark, against his better judgement, got up and went to the bar for several drinks. It didn’t necessarily dull the pain, but it helped.

Despite it all, Alex was keeping up all appearances of a normal, innocent schoolboy. He talked to the couple that had sat down next to Mark about school for a bit before branching into a larger discussion of football. Esther and Paul tried to talk to Alex and Mark a few times, but Alex always disengaged right away – if they conversed, Gregorovich was in the middle of them, and he appeared ready and willing to engage. As a point of fact, almost every second Alex was looking at exactly the right place to avoid looking at Gregorovich. Mark couldn’t blame the kid.

The main notable event from dinner occurred just after the main course. Gregorovich turned to respond to something Esther said, and Mark watched Alex adjust his grip on his knife’s handle. Alex met Mark’s eyes, then began to slide the knife off the table. Without turning back around, Gregorovich took the knife from Alex and placed it back on the table.

“Quite good food, as always,” Esther said as dessert was being cleared off the table.

“Very good,” Mark concurred. Now if only the rest of the night would go as easily, there was the chance no one was getting maimed tonight.

-AR-

After the dinner ended, the party migrated upstairs to the room Alex had been briefly pushed into last night. A few tables were set up and people chose tables to play. Alex settled on the wall and watched a game or two before Yassen joined him.

“Want something?” Alex asked.

Yassen rested his eyes on Alex. “You have come perilously close to putting your partner in danger several times tonight.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve met me.” He left the wall to wander among the non-prisoners before the assassin could give a response. Yassen didn’t follow him.

“Alex,” Alex introduced himself to the first guest he found standing somewhat away from other groups of people. “Am I crazy, or does Mr. Walsh seem a bit off?”

He was asking his third person if they had seen any weirdness related to Walsh when Yassen noticed that he was up to no good. There was a sudden hand rested on his shoulder. “They have a seat at a table,” Yassen said.

“No thanks, I’m broke. And the last time someone fronted me, I won tens of thousands of pounds and nearly got killed.” Alex smiled as if it was a joke.

“Nevertheless.”

Yassen led Alex to the table Walsh was playing at. Walsh smiled delightedly when Alex sat down. A pile of poker chips was already at the table where Alex sat.

“Everyone,” Walsh said, “If you haven’t met already, this is Alex. He’s the teenager who was trying to break into my personal rooms last night. It turns out he’s quite the kleptomaniac, although his father is a great businessman. And they’re officially my guests.”

“For at least the next week,” Alex said, staring down Walsh and ignoring the odd looks being sent his way.

Walsh ignored the comment. “We’re playing Five Card Draw. You know it?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s play!”

Alex played conservatively for a while, winning a little and losing a little. Most games he folded. And then he gambled and lost on a game where he thought his cards would have beaten the others. The next hand, he had three eights by the end. A blond lady, Alex, and Walsh were the only ones left. Walsh put a significant amount of his chips in the middle. More than Alex had.

Alex pushed the rest of his chips in. It wasn’t his money.

The blond lady folded. Walsh and Alex flipped their cards.

Walsh won with a straight.

Walsh looked at Alex and smiled. “Alex, you’re out of chips. You want to continue with another game?”

Alex looked around the crowd that had gathered. No one was at a good angle to see his hands. Alex had an idea, but it could backfire on him. “I’d love another game. But how about for a wager, instead of chips. If I win, I get your watch.”

Walsh let out an incredulous laugh, and at that the other members of the table joined in.

“Confident, are you? Well, that’s an enticing offer…give my guest my watch. Better than having it stolen, eh? But here’s my problem.” Walsh steepled his fingers and leaned over them. “What do I get if you win?”

“You can have my watch.” Alex pulled on his jacket to reveal a Rolex. A dark anger passed quickly across Walsh’s face. It was, after all, his watch that Alex was wearing. But no one else in the room knew that.

“You can’t take advantage of a child, Conan,” a woman said, shaking her head at Alex.

“No, no,” Walsh said. “I want to encourage the young to have a bit of fun. Do you know what this is, Alex? It’s an A. Lange & Söhne watch. It’s a nice timepiece. And it will be my wager for this game.”

The croupier dealt the cards.

Alex slid out from his sleeves the two ace’s he’d pocketed earlier in the night and made his four and seven disappear.

He traded two of his cards in.

Walsh traded in three cards.

“We’re not betting, we just have our wager. Let’s just turn over our cards,” Walsh said.

Walsh put down his cards. Two pair, kings and tens.

Alex smiled. “Four of a kind, aces high.”

The crowd went quiet. They didn’t seem to know how to react. Walsh considered Alex, shrugged, and took his watch off. There was no hint of the anger that Alex knew had to be there under the surface. “Even beginners have their day.” At that, several of the people around Walsh congratulated Alex.

“Thanks.” Alex took the watch. He waited a second for the room to be quieter. “I was worried for a second that you were going to have me shot for embarrassing you. I know we’re supposed to be here for at least a week, so I guess if no one sees me then they’ll just know I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Someone gasped. Alex looked around the gathered audience. “Kidding, obviously. I’ll be here at the next party too.”

“Yes,” Walsh said. There was no emotion in his voice. “That’s enough poker for me tonight. Alex, how about you and I talk later, as you are, as pointed out, staying with me, and we let some others take over the game.”

“Sure,” Alex agreed. He got out of the table, and went to a seat on the wall in the middle of the room. Several people were staring at him

Yassen sat down on one of the chairs next to him.

“Back to me being in trouble?” Alex asked. His throat was dry. Despite his fake confidence, his plans could easily backfire.

“It is incredibly difficult to keep you alive,” Yassen murmured, low enough that Alex was barely sure he had heard correctly.

“Because you’re trying so hard,” Alex muttered.

-AR-

The party migrated back downstairs, people had final drinks from the bar, and then people began to thank Walsh and disappear. Yassen settled Alex down alone at the banquet table before going to talk to several people himself. A drunk man came and congratulated Alex before wandering away, and other than that Alex was left alone. He noticed several people give him strange looks on their way out. After a few minutes Mark came and joined him.

He looked at Alex with an expression that Alex couldn’t read. “Was everything you did tonight a wise decision?” he asked eventually.

“I was betting on it.”

“You were betting with me,” Mark said.

Alex didn’t have a response to that. In his experience, between doing nothing and doing something…something was always the right answer. But maybe this hadn’t been the right time for that something. They would have to wait and see.

Eventually the manor was quiet. Yassen and Walsh entered the room. “Is the waitstaff gone?” Walsh asked Yassen.

Yassen looked at his phone for a minute. “The security feeds are clear,” he said at last.

Walsh whipped around to see Alex. “I’ll take my watch back now.”

Alex handed it back. Walsh grabbed it and paced a few steps to either side of where Alex was sitting while putting his watch back on.

“Thirty-five thousand Euros I can never wear again, because some spoiled brat decided to cheat me at the card tables,” Walsh snarled. “And four of a kind, aces high! You cheated!”

“Yes,” Alex said.

“Yes?” Walsh said. He stopped pacing, in disbelief. “You did?”

“You could outspend me, so I took a route that would help me.” Alex shrugged. “Your croupiers weren’t Vegas dealers. They didn’t even notice they’d been shorted.”

“In Vegas, you would be shot,” Walsh snarled.

“You can’t,” Alex said. “I talked to a few guests about how things seemed suspicious. I told another few guests that I was going to be here for at least a week. I told your entire table that if I wasn’t here next week, it’s because I was dead.”

“A joke,” Walsh said coldly.

“People are already suspicious,” Yassen said. He let that rest in the air. Walsh glared at Alex. Then he tilted his head and smiled.

“Yes, perhaps they are. So, you will be attending my next party, wearing my watch and having the time of your life. The same does not have to be true for your partner.”

“He’s supposed to be my dad,” Alex said quickly. “You can’t just have a random 15-year-old at your party. That will look even more suspicious.”

“He’ll be alive,” Walsh said. There was a sudden unpleasant fake nicety to his tone. Walsh stood and walked to the bar. He poured two fingers of whisky. He walked out and back over to where Mark and Alex were sitting. “I said whichever of you embarrassed me, I would hurt the other one.”

“Your friends have seen us,” Alex bit back coldly. “How’re your going to explain the second cast? Another sporting accident?”

“There won’t be a second cast. Gregorovich, do you have a knife?”

Yassen reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He handed it to Walsh. Walsh offered the glass of whisky to Mark. “Drink up.”

Alex’s insides curled. This wasn’t good. Yassen looked tense as well. Or maybe Alex was merely projecting.

“I’ve had enough tonight,” Mark said.

“Drink up,” Walsh repeated. “All in one go.”

Mark reached for the whisky with his good hand.

“Cast on the table,” Walsh said. Mark, visibly trembling, complied.

“I was the one who did things,” Alex said suddenly, desperately. “He didn’t do anything.”

“No,” Walsh agreed. “He didn’t.” He switched the blade open and used the flat of the blade to touch Mark’s chin. “Drink up.”

“No,” Alex said.

“It’s going to happen, kid,” Mark said, and tipped the whisky back.

Walsh smiled, waited until Mark was done drinking, and stabbed the knife deep into the middle of Mark’s hand.

Mark gave a garbled noise that could have been half of a scream or a choke.

“An exciting night,” Walsh said, over Mark’s cries. “I think at the end I enjoyed your games, Alex. Having you around for another week will be entertaining.” He withdrew the knife, wiped it on the tablecloth, closed it, and handed it to Yassen. “Gregorovich, see that this one gets cleaned up.” He left without a backwards glance.


	4. Chapter 4

“Alex, your jacket,” Yassen ordered. There was a touch of urgency in his tone that Alex couldn’t recall hearing before, unless he counted Yassen almost dying on Air Force One.

Alex took his jacket off quickly and shoved it down the table. Yassen took it and wrapped it around Mark’s cast. “Hold your hand still,” he said, and Mark’s free hand pressed down. His face was pale and shaky.

“How bad is it?” Alex didn’t want to know. If the other agent died, it would be because of Alex’s ‘misbehavior’.

“There’s a first aid kit in the middle cabinet in the next room. Go get it.”

Alex went to look for it. There wasn’t any question of escape right now. He knew enough about medicine to know that cut arteries could easily lead to enough blood loss to pass out or die. With a first aid kit, Alex could maybe stabilize Mark’s injuries, but possibly not even that. The cast would have to be removed first to get to the injury, which would require a knife. And enough finesse with a knife to avoid slicing into Mark’s hand more than had already been done.

Alex found the first aid kit on the second cabinet shelf and brought it with him back to the dining room. Mark was still holding Alex’s jacket firm around his injured hand. Sweat was beading on the edges of his hairline.

“Leave it there,” Yassen said. He was returning to the room with a pitcher of water in one hand and a hand towel in the other.

“Can I help?”

The assassin shook his head minutely. He took a seat next to Mark and opened the first aid kit. Alex stood, numb and uncertain.

“You should look away.”

Alex wasn’t sure if that was directed at Mark or himself. If it was meant for him, he didn’t listen. Alex took a step back and reached for a chair, stumbling into it while staring horrified as Yassen maneuvered the jacket to get at the edge of the cast.

“Press down harder.”

“He’s going to pass out,” Alex objected.

“When you are a trained medic, feel free to give your opinion.” Yassen left the second part of his statement unsaid, but Alex took the meaning all the same. _Until then, shut up._

Mark groaned sickly.

Alex looked away.

The other agent’s groans became muffled after a while, and Alex looked back to see Mark’s uninjured hand now pressed against his mouth and suppressing pained sounds. Alex avoided looking at whatever Yassen was doing to Mark’s hand. He wasn’t going to faint if he saw blood – he’d seen enough in the past year and half to be at least somewhat desensitized – but he also felt responsible enough without the direct evidence being forced in front of his eyes.

“You have to have something for his pain,” Alex said.

Yassen took a moment to respond. “He’s been drinking.”

“He won’t be drunk all night.”

Mark didn’t seem aware of the conversation. His eyes were fixed in a horrified stare on his hand.

“There has to be something,” Alex insisted again after a moment.

Yassen tilted his head in Alex’s direction. “Would you like to continue to distract me?”

Alex bit his lip. No. He turned away, crossing his arms tightly and staring at the wall. He couldn’t help right now – he should try and tune it out.

It wasn’t much longer before Yassen spoke again. “We’ll get a doctor here tomorrow to look at it with more detail.”

Alex turned back to the two men. Mark was flushed and clearly in pain, but he nodded. Alex took in the man’s hand. His cast had been completely cut away and his fingers were clearly splinted and his palm wrapped in a clean bandage.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, quietly.

“Not your fault,” the older agent protested weakly. He moved his right hand off the table slightly with a barely concealed grimace. Alex’s jacket, now soaked in blood, was knocked slightly aloof and slithered off the table, revealing the muddled pinkish stain of blood half washed away with water on the tablecloth.

“Is there medicine in there?” Alex gestured to the open first aid kit. “Or any pain relievers?”

Mark stood uncertainly. His movement showed he was trying to keep his hand still. “It’s fine,” he grunted.

“No,” Yassen said, standing as well.

Alex stayed in his seat. “There has to be something,” he pleaded.

The older agent gave a choked laugh and shook his head. Alex couldn’t tell if Mark thought Alex was in denial of the situation, or if the man was just delirious.

Yassen started to shake his head, then hesitated. “I’ll look,” he answered.

Alex stopped in the door to the room before it could close behind them. He turned to face Yassen. “You said you’d find something for Mark,” he challenged.

“I said I’ll look.” Yassen put his hand on the door, ready to close it.

Alex hesitated. “Now?”

“He’s still drunk. Go inside,” Yassen began to shut the door, and Alex stepped inside. As soon the door closed Alex realized that the man’s answer most likely meant _no, not now._ Of course it did. Alex couldn’t help the hysterical laugh that bubbled up. Assuming the assassin had even been speaking the truth about looking at all.

“You alright?”

Mark was sitting on the bed, hunched over and miserable. Still, the agent was eyeing Alex as if he was the one who had just had his fingers broken and his hand stabbed.

“I’m sorry,” Alex confessed again.

“Shut up,” the agent said. He smiled mirthlessly. “You did fine. You made sure we would live to see another week, and I don’t know if that madman would have kept us around that long without you.” Mark sighed. “Only problem is right now I’m not sure I want to live to see another week. Now go to sleep before something new happens tomorrow.”

“You won’t be able to sleep.”

Mark shrugged and then immediately flinched in pain. He took a deep breath, then let it out again. Alex felt another stab of guilt. “I’m the adult. Let me take care of this.” Mark forced a pained smile. “Thanks to you I have medicine coming my way, so you’ve been a help already.”

The man’s words weren’t reassuring and there was a decent chance Yassen was lying, but Alex knew Mark already knew both of those facts.

“Do you need help with anything?” Alex asked.

“You can help me by getting sleep.” Mark moved off the bed carefully. “You’ll still be stuck with me in the morning. We can deal with everything then.”

“Sure,” Alex said without enthusiasm. “I’m sure everything will look brighter in the morning.”

“That’s the spirit.” Mark leaned against the wall. “I’m telling you though, when we leave, I’m not leaving a great review. Our host’s hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.”

\---

Except for the absolute silence of the room, the door wouldn’t have been heard.

“You could knock,” the boy said from his spot curled in bed.

The man who had both responsible for Mark’s injuries and his current bandages walked to Mark, ignoring Alex. “This will help.” He offered a small pill bottle and a bottle of water to Mark.

“Thanks,” Mark said as he took the pill bottle and then the water.

The Russian nodded towards the bed. “He should go to sleep.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Alex muttered. “You’ve really got my best interests in mind.”

“Do you need anything else?” Gregorovich asked.

“I wanted a pony for Christmas. Mind telling your boss?”

Mark looked at the other man. He appeared unbothered by Alex’s background noise. Then again, he was also a former assassin for SCORPIA. In two days, Mark had enough experience with the man to know that Alex had no idea what the man was capable of, even after their torture the other day.

“He’s harmless,” Mark said.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow. “Not quite.”

Great. More hints to the fact that Alex was more than just a random teenager shoved into a situation he didn’t belong in. Mark shoved his worry about the boy’s past away. “He hasn’t had much sleep. But we’re good.” Assuming, of course, that good was a relative term for _we are not good and would like very much to leave._

“Take two every 4 hours.” Gregorovich left as quietly and quickly as he’d entered.

Alex sat up as soon as the man had left. “What did he give you?”

Mark looked at the bottle. “Ibuprofen.”

“That’ll be a lot of help,” Alex said sarcastically.

“It’s something.” At this point, Mark would take almost anything. Mark examined the childproof lid and gave a sardonic smile. “Come open it?”

Alex got out of bed and came to open the bottle. He handed it back, open, to Mark before opening the water for him. Mark shook out two of the white pills and gulped them down with a fresh swig of water. He wondered what would happen if he went ahead and swallowed another four. The pain had diminished a lot in the past hours but it was still there, endless and prominent.

“He was right. You really should go to sleep,” Mark admitted.

“I know.” Alex sat down next to Mark.

“Are you going to try again?”

Alex shrugged. “It’s hard to sleep when you’re fairly sure the madmen holding you hostage is going to torture you as soon as the sun rises.”

“Did Walsh say that was going to happen?”

“No. But I’ve met at least one madman who was into torture at the crack of dawn, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Walsh fits that mold.”

Mark laughed. “You’ve got a dark and not that reassuring sense of humor, Alex.”

The teenager didn’t smile back.

Outside, it was still darkened night sky. Wind was rustling the trees. Mark suspected the next day would be dark and overcast, fitting the mood of this whole dismal affair.

“You said someone was waiting for you?” Mark asked the boy. He wasn’t sure if it would help the situation to keep the boy awake and pestered by questions but talking was a distraction. And _anything_ that could take his mind off his hand would help.

The boy grimaced. “I don’t think she even knows I’m missing. MI6 never tells her anything; I don’t see why they’d start now.”

“Is she a relative?”

He shook his head. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Fair enough.”

The boy buried his head in his arms, clearly tired. Exhausted, probably. He should really go to bed; he also probably couldn’t. Alex had been laying down for at least an hour before the arrival of the Ibuprofen had led to him leaving the bed.

How did Mark talk to kids? Let alone when the child was in a hopeless seeming situation with very real reason to be afraid of the looming day. Mark tried to remember conversations he’d had when he was at school – the ones that weren’t about hitting on girls or his A-levels. “If you were stranded on a desert island, what 5 things would you bring with you?”

“A yacht, and 4 meals,” came the muffled response.

“No loopholes,” Mark rebuffed. He waited a while, but the kid didn’t respond. “Alright,” Mark acknowledged, “I guess you’re someone for loopholes. I’m going to play fair though. I’d bring a decanter of Johnnie Walker, the good stuff, a copy of Crime and Punishment, a knife, a flashlight, and, after today, a first aid kit.”

The kid raised his head. Mark rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to hear you’re sorry again.”

That brought a half smile to the boy’s face. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” Mark smirked. “What’s your best memory?” When the boy looked uncertain, Mark held up his good hand. “Take your time.”

Eventually the boy answered. “I don’t know about my best memory, but I had a football match a couple years ago.”

Mark waited for the boy to expand. When no more information seemed forthcoming, Mark prodded, “Why that day?”

“Ian was,” Alex hesitated, then started over. “My uncle was there, and my housekeeper. After the match we went out for dinner. I don’t know, it was a good day. It was before all of this started and I didn’t have to think about, just, everything.”

“You’re close to your uncle?”

“I thought I was.”

Mark had the feeling he’d just wandered into a minefield of a topic. Probably now was a good time to retreat from this topic.

“How about you?” the kid asked.

There was no question in Mark’s mind. “The day I met my girlfriend. It was ten years ago, and we knew right away.” She had known right away, anyway. And a month later, Mark had known too. But they’d discovered it made a better story to claim the immediate knowledge that they would get together had been mutual. “You’re probably a bit young to be in love,” Mark accepted. “Maybe you’ve heard your parents talk about when they met each other.” A sudden thought worried Mark. “Unless they’re divorced.”

“No.” Alex said quietly.

Mark suddenly remembered earlier comments the boy had made – that his parents wouldn’t be the ones worried about him. Maybe his parents weren’t the best to talk about. Of course Mark had blundered into talking about something sensitive to the boy – his girlfriend would be shaking her head in fake despair right now, assuming she could keep her head to focus on Mark’s faux pas over her horror at the overall situation. Brenda knew some things about Mark’s line of work. Not enough to comprehend this situation though. “Sorry,” Mark said.

The boy shrugged. “Tell me about her.”

Grateful to have something to latch onto, Mark did.

-AR-

The visiting doctor was the same unperturbed man who had begun to heal Mark’s hand before. Mark wondered how many scenes like this that man must have seen at this mansion in the previous months. How much money would it take to convince a doctor to ignore their oath to do no harm? Darkly, Mark hoped it was a lot. Torturing agents of the state should at least cost Walsh a pretty penny.

The doctor didn’t ask questions. He did give a pointed look when telling Gregorovich that repeated injuries could cause Mark a shock or lead to other problems, but he took the folded cash Gregorovich offered without any outward indication of guilt.

“Pain management not a part of your practice, doc?” Mark asked when the doctor had finished packing up the supplies he had brought. He figured it was a calculated shot – neither the doctor nor Gregorovich had once asked Mark how much pain he was in (a significant amount) or alluded to any medication that could help Mark manage it, but at the same time the doctor had given him a few pills yesterday morning.

The doctor hesitantly referred to Gregorovich, who shrugged.

“He’s taken doses of a NSAID. ”

“That could help. There are certainly stronger treatments.”

“I’ll take the strong stuff,” Mark commented.

“I don’t have any more on me. I’ll write a prescription.” Without waiting for a reply, the doctor rifled through his bag for a pad of paper. He scrawled a quick prescription, tore the top sheet of paper off the pad, and handed it to the assassin. Gregorovich took the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

The doctor left as Gregorovich and Mark headed back to the oh so accommodating guest room.

“I’ll bring clean clothes,” Gregorovich said outside the room. “Walsh wants you both to join him for lunch.”

“Fine,” Mark replied. It wasn’t, but there wasn’t much more to say.

“Perhaps talk to Alex about listening rather than being heard.”

Mark almost smirked. “I’ll mention it.”

Inside, Alex was sitting on the bed with a blanket wrapped around him.

“We’re getting clean clothes soon and we need to have lunch with Walsh.” Mark said. He didn’t have the patience to mince words.

Alex didn’t appear surprised. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s alright,” Mark deflected. It wasn’t a teenager’s job to be worried about Mark’s injuries. Kind as the kid seemed, especially with his insistence on getting medication last night, he was still a kid. Mark could deal with it. “I meant to tell you last night, kid, but, you did well.” Mark reached for reassuring words awkwardly. “I mean it, you really tried to help us. You were asking for medication when I needed it. And the talking last night really helped. Your family, or whoever is waiting for you at home, they’d be proud of you.”

The boy accepted the compliment with a nod.

Mark went to grab a couple more Ibuprofen. After he swallowed them, he said, “The assassin wanted me to tell you to talk less.”

Alex snorted.

Yeah. Mark gave a sharp laugh. If he had been in this situation as a teenager with a sharp mouth, he probably wouldn’t have appreciated that either. Still, it might not be bad advice. He said as much; “Walsh isn’t the right man to anger.”

“They never are,” the boy agreed.

Taking that as the most agreement he would probably get, Mark sat down and closed his eyes. He wasn’t a religious man, but this might be the time to try a quick prayer-like-meditation.

-AR-

The room where the armed bodyguard brought them held a table which was set for three, but also an indoor garden. Alex hadn’t seen any of the back part of the first floor either of the previous days, which made sense as this space was large but the table in the corner could only accommodate five or six people.

The garden room appeared to be almost a greenhouse more than a dining space. The room had vast windowpanes that started at the roof and came down to a meter off the ground. Shelves held an assortment of plants around the edges of the room and a fountain surrounded by flowers gurgled in the middle of the rom. A set of glass doors next to the table led to an outside terrace.

“Mark,” Walsh greeted from the table. “Join me?”

The older agent headed to the corner slowly. Alex hadn’t been acknowledged, which as far as Alex was concerned was an excuse for him to not engage the madman of the hour. Alex headed towards a stone bench next to the fountain. He sat down and realized right away that the noises of the fountain would drown out Mark and Walsh’s conversation. Oh well. Mark could tell him about it later.

There was a ladybird on the Easter lily closest to the bench. Alex allowed himself to be distracted following the path of the ladybird as it crawled across the lily’s white petals and then took flight for a violet spring squill.

He wasn’t distracted enough to miss Yassen’s entrance. The bodyguard at the door moved aside slightly to allow the assassin entrance. Yassen stepped into the room and looked towards his boss for only a second before he turned to walk to Alex.

Yassen sat next to Alex without acknowledging him. Alex wondered if another conversation about keeping quiet was coming, or if Yassen was only there to keep an eye on him. As if Alex was a threat right now, unarmed and watching a ladybird fly around some flowers.

“What are they talking about?”

“If they wanted you to know, you would be sitting over there.”

Fair. Alex slid his newly provided grey hoodie off and tied it around his waist. The room was almost a greenhouse, and more humid than he’d expected. “How bad was his hand?”

“It will need time.”

That could mean almost anything. It would need time to heal and be good as new; it would need time to see if his hand could recover to a point where it might hold something again; it would time to see if an amputation was necessary. Alex almost shuddered at the last thought. “It can’t be a great practice to kill a foreign spy in your home,” he considered aloud instead. “Would your boss have cared if he bled out?”

“I’m sure he would prefer to have two living hostages.”

The yellow, white, and violet flowers mixing around the fountain formed a pleasant enough picture. They were neatly maintained, and the colors complimented the grey stone of the fountain. Alex could have found it beautiful in almost any other circumstance. Instead this room was just background scenery to a terrible set of circumstances.

And he hadn’t missed Yassen’s avoidance of the question.

“But you could have let him bleed out.” It was a statement of fact, and Yassen left it unanswered. Alex felt another guilty tug at his conscience. The fucking bastard had _told Alex_ that he would hurt Mark if Alex acted out, and Alex had gone and made a scene anyway. Mark could be dead. Reluctant as Alex was to thank _Yassen,_ the only reason Mark was alive was the man. “Thanks for helping.”

“It would not have been necessary, if you had listened when I warned you to stop.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I’ll sit here and behave until your boss tells you to shoot us both,” Alex snapped reflexively.

“I would prefer to avoid that as well,” Yassen replied.

“So you say,” Alex said, mentally reeling himself in. Snapping at the assassin wouldn’t help. “Any idea how to avoid both of those fates? Mark getting tortured or both of getting shot?”

Yassen shrugged. “What have you tried? Besides making a public scene?”

Nothing. But Yassen, if he didn’t know that for a fact, obviously at least suspected that to be the case. And Alex wasn’t about to seriously suggest plans of escape with the man charged with holding him hostage. Adding fuel to the fire was not Alex’s intention.

“Alex!” The utterance came from across the room. Alex looked up to see Walsh waving him over, again with the twisted look of delight that a child possessed when cutting off their doll’s head.

Yassen stood and headed over. Alex took a deep breath and followed.

The table had 5 chairs, but only three place settings were laid out – the head of the table, where Walsh sat, wearing yet another expensive watch, and the spot to his left and right. Mark was sitting at the right, and so Alex took the spot to Walsh’s left. Yassen moved one of the empty chairs from next to the Alex to the vacant end of the table and took a seat.

“You didn’t sleep,” Walsh said. It wasn’t a question and Alex had no intention of leading to another incident, so he stayed quiet. Mark was clearly uncomfortable, and Alex wasn’t sure if it was due to anticipation of Alex doing something stupid, the pain he’d been quietly suffering through, or the conversation Walsh and Mark had been having before Alex joined. Walsh waited for a moment, eyeing Alex expectantly.

“No,” Alex said eventually.

That seemed to be the right answer. Walsh gestured at the plates. “Are you hungry?”

No, but this wasn’t really about Alex. His answers should focus on appeasing Walsh, not the truth. The truth was Alex would shoot Walsh in a second if it meant Mark and him could leave, but that didn’t need to be said either. “I’ll eat,” Alex responded.

Walsh held his hand up and snapped. Alex resisted the urge to point out that waitstaff were people, not dogs. The bodyguard at the door moved again, and an elderly man with grey hair and a formal waitstaff outfit came through the door pushing a cart. He maneuvered the cart on the marble tile floor around the fountain and stopped it next to Alex’s seat.

“We’ll need coffee,” Walsh remarked. The elderly waiter nodded and departed the room, leaving the cart next to Alex.

“Put the food on the table,” Walsh said. He was clearly used to giving orders. Alex picked up a platter of sandwich sections carefully and placed it in the middle of the table. There was also a small platter of cake pieces speared with toothpicks. Alex moved that tray to the table as well.

Alex watched as Walsh selected a few finger sandwiches and loaded them onto his plate. Mark similarly waited for Walsh to go first. Alex eyed the food, wondering if there was a pattern to the food Walsh was picking. He wasn’t sure what he expected to come from this meeting, but poison was not off the table.

“Eat up,” Walsh said, noticing their hesitation. “I assure you: finger foods are nothing nefarious.” He nodded in Mark’s direction. “They won’t even present a challenge to eat.”

Mark chose a few sandwiches of different sorts for himself. Alex reached for a roast beef sandwich segment and put it on his plate, keeping an eye on Walsh all the while.

Walsh laughed as if at a joke. “Neither of you are the trusting sort, are you?” He dug into his food while Alex and Mark watched. Mark looked at Alex, grimaced, and then began to eat as well. Alex watched for a few minutes before he ate the one piece of a sandwich he’d picked at.

The waiter returned with a tray holding three coffees, 3 spoons, and a small creamer pitcher which he left on the table before departing. Alex considered the three coffees and wondered if Yassen preferred to have his presence ignored, or whether hired assassins just didn’t fit into Walsh’s inane fantasies of being a host.

“Are you both enjoying the food?” Walsh inquired.

“It was good, thank you,” Mark said weakly. The older man wasn’t looking good. Alex frowned. It could be the food, but he suspected it was just the pain.”

“If anyone else is going to see us, he can’t spend the entire time writhing in pain,” Alex pointed out. “Can you give him something?”

Walsh looked over Mark in open amusement. “Gregorovich, get him something by tomorrow.”

By tomorrow still left time for a lot of pain, but it was better than nothing. “Thanks,” Alex said.

The Irishman laughed. “Feeling guilty, Alex?”

“I didn’t stab him in the hand,” Alex replied. It was a misstep, he recognized even before Walsh’s eyes flashed.

“Yes, he does,” Mark said, covering him. “He’s a teenager. They have a tough time accepting blame, but he was apologizing all night.”

Walsh nodded and took a drink of coffee. He made a low considering noise in his throat. “Yes, your partner is a teenager. Which opens several questions into how MI6 does business, doesn’t it? Especially when he was the one planting bugs in my home while you played poker!”

Alex took his time pouring creamer into his coffee and stirring it in. Mark didn’t say anything. Thankfully, neither did Yassen.

“Alex, you’ll have to teach me something,” Walsh said. “You tricked my card dealer last night. That can’t have been an easy trick, especially for a schoolboy. Show me how you did it.”

Among the various things Alex could be asked to do at proverbial gunpoint, showing a card trick was not the worst potentiality. Alex untied the hoodie around his waist and put it on. Then he asked, “Do you have a deck of cards?”

Walsh tapped a small wooden box next to his plate twice, then handed it over. Alex opened the box and pulled out the cards. He put the stack of cards face up on the table, and then moved one card at a time from the stack to a new stack, flipping each card face down as he went.

“They’re all there,” Walsh noted.

“I wasn’t checking that they were all there,” Alex responded. “I’m looking for the aces.”

Walsh drew his chair back abruptly.

“Sorry,” Alex apologized. “I think I kicked you on accident. I was just trying to stretch.”

“Not a problem,” Walsh said shortly.

Alex finished flipping the cards from the first stack to the second and pushed them over to Walsh.

“You can deal, and I’ll show you the trick. Though it helps when everyone isn’t staring at you,” Alex said. “Or when you have a distraction.”

“He already used his distraction,” Yassen spoke for the first time. “He kicked you. Check how many cards you have now.”

Walsh shuffled through his stack of cards, counting under his breath. With three cards left he stopped and raised his head to face Alex.

“You have a card.”

Alex shrugged and shook out the right sleeve of his hoodie. The ace of hearts fell out.

“So that’s your trick?” Walsh asked. “Distraction and sleight of hand?”

“That’s the trick to pickpocketing too,” Alex admitted.

“The tricks that someone taught a teenager,” Walsh wondered aloud.

Alex had been nine when Ian Rider had taught him the card trick, but he doubted Walsh cared. Alex certainly didn’t care to bring it up.

“Did MI6 teach you?” Walsh asked.

In a way, Alex supposed they had. “My uncle,” Alex answered instead.

Walsh considered. “For your uncle, he enjoys teaching you skills that will get you killed.”

Sometimes Alex wondered the same thing. More and more, he was trying to lean towards the idea that Ian had only been trying to protect him by teaching him these skills – but Alex definitely wondered, especially when he found himself in situations like this, if Ian didn’t have a spy’s life picked out for Alex by the time he was six. “I don’t think he’s going to teach me any more similar skills.”

“No, I suppose not,” Walsh admitted. Though Alex rather had a feeling that Walsh meant it was because he planned to have Alex killed soon, not because Ian Rider had been dead for over a year.

Walsh took back the ace of hearts and shuffled it into the deck. Walsh’s smile was vicious again. “Would either of you like to play a game?” Noticing Mark balk, he waved a hand. “I have friends coming over soon, and you are both going to be guests. I assure you that this game won’t lead to anything deadly.”

Alex and Mark glanced at each other.

“You’re taking too long,” Walsh said. “And I think a rejection of my proposal is a bit boring, in general. How about I reword the question – between the two of you, who is going to play my game? Alex? Mark? Both of you? You have a minute to decide, or I will.”

Walsh took another sip of coffee, then tapped his watch of the day. “Choose quickly.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Thirty seconds,” Walsh said.

“I will,” the boy said. He looked tired to the core. Mark couldn’t help but think of the child’s repeated comments – they were all to the effect of “this is always how it goes”.

What the _fuck_ sort of life did this boy lead?

“Both of us, then,” Mark said.

Walsh smiled enigmatically. “I was hoping you would say that. It really makes this game all the more exciting. You see, I’m still upset about the last two nights. A teenager making a scene at my party – and then again the next night! I haven’t dealt with anything like it before, and I’d rather avoid that unpleasantness again. So I think I really will need to leave you both with a reminder that I’m not to be crossed.”

As if stabbing Mark in an already mangled hand wasn’t already a _painful_ reminder of that fact.

“If we already know we’re getting hurt, what’s the game?” the boy asked quietly.

“Oh, that part is certain. The game is to decide the uncertainty – which of you two will bear the damage. I’ll leave it to the winner to decide. If you have a few good hands, you’ll be in luck! You can just tell me the other’s name and they can deal with my wrath.”

Mark took in the teenage spy he had been saddled with and instinctively knew that the boy would never choose to have someone else hurt instead of him. Which meant Mark not only had to fight through his current pain to stay lucid – he had to fight through the pain enough to win whatever card game was chosen for them. Because he wasn’t, absolutely wasn’t, going back to London to tell Jones her child agent was missing a finger or some equally important body part.

“Are you playing too?” the boy asked in resignation.

“Of course. If I win, you both get hurt.”

“This isn’t necessary,” Gregorovich objected. It wasn’t clear from the assassin’s body language if he’d known this “game” was coming, but Mark suspected from this remark that it was as new to Gregorovich as it was to Alex and himself.

“No, but it is exciting,” the Irishman agreed.

“We won’t cause any more trouble,” Mark said. “I’ll talk to the kid. If you're hurting someone, it needs to be me. I’m the one in charge.” That wasn’t, as far as Mark could tell, technically true. Or true in practice. But Mark was already dying in pain; he might as well spare the kid.

Walsh waved a hand dismissively. “You can choose that if you win. Who knows, Alex may choose you if he wins. And if I win, it’s a moot point anyway, because you’ll both be suffering.”

“He’s fifteen,” Mark objected.

“I was twelve when my father was killed by someone who'd owed him money. It made me who I am today. Everyone should have to overcome a few obstacles in their youth.”

Mark felt a surge of anger. Obstacles defeated could lay the groundwork for a stronger future, he absolutely agreed with that in theory. But not when the obstacle was unnecessary torture, not when the subject was a schoolboy, and especially not when the person ordering the torture obviously planned to kill them both not long after introducing said “obstacle” into their lives.

“What are we playing?” the boy asked indifferently.

“Poker, of course. We have a deck of cards, but we’ll need to get everyone some amount of money. I’ll leave you two to discuss who you’re choosing if you win, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with chips. Questions before I go?” Walsh inquired.

No one responded.

“Very well.” Walsh walked out of the room, with the bodyguard at the door turning to follow the man as he left. Mark watched the door for several heartbeats after it was left empty before he looked back across the table towards the boy, his stomach twisting. Alex had his face buried in his hands.

“Alex?” Mark asked.

The boy exhaled softly, then lowered his hands. He turned to the assassin.

“I really hate your bosses.”

Gregorovich nodded, his face neutral.

“Do you want to talk about what we’re going to do?” Mark asked.

Alex glanced at him then at the table. “Does it matter? If I win, I’m not going to choose you, and you should choose me, but I doubt you’ll do that either.”

The kid was right. No, Mark wasn’t going to choose a fifteen-year-old to undergo torture from someone who thought a possibly fatal injury was fun.

“Do you want to play?” the boy asked the assassin at the end of the table. “If you win, congratulations – you earned the day off. No torture for anyone. Everyone wins.”

The man shook his head. “No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

What was Mark supposed to do now? No part of his training had included this. Mark had passed RTI three times, and there had never been a simulation where a fifteen-year-old got hurt if Mark didn’t win a fucking game of cards.

“How are you?” Mark asked. “Seriously.”

Alex side eyed Gregorovich, then gave a hollow laugh. “I told MI6 no the first five times they asked me to do this. But they don’t listen to me. And now I get to play a card game for the chance of getting hurt. How should I be doing?”

Which was about where Mark was. He didn’t want to get personal and ask the boy, but his parents were idiots if they thought this was a good idea. Though judging by the previous expressions that had crossed Alex’s face when his parents had been mentioned, Mark was getting the idea that parents weren’t a significant part of the child’s life. If he thought about it, the only time Alex’s parents had been mentioned, they hadn’t been brought up because of the boy. If Mark thought on it, the only adult relative Alex had mentioned in his life was an uncle.

“You said no?”

A messy combination of emotions warred across Alex’s face.

“It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t have been given the choice,” Gregorovich said.

“Then you’ll leave him out of this,” Mark bit out.

“He’s here now.” The assassin’s even stare didn’t reveal any hints of guilt or remorse for his part in this farce.

Mark scoffed.

Walsh arrived with a handful of poker chips of different values, and he sat down and began to count them out into three separate piles. He stopped when he had three separate piles with only a handful of chips not sorted. Walsh pushed a pile in front of each of them. “You’re both my guest after all,” he then said as he added several extra chips to Alex and Mark’s piles. With a sly grin he added even more to Alex’s. “And I suppose I should give the young a fighting chance. A warning though, if you cheat this time, I’ll have terrible things done to your partner.”

Gregorovich took the cards and counted them. The count must have satisfied them, because he shuffled them before waiting for dealing instructions.

“Do you both know Five-Card Draw?” Walsh asked. After they both agreed, the game began.

It was clearly from the second game that Mark was fighting a war of attrition. Mark was a true spy for special operations – he blended into the background of a scene and tended to get lost in the crowd. He wasn’t flashy or good with cards like James Bond. He was struggling to think strategy clearly over the waves of pain emanating from his hand and playing cards with one hand was a physical challenge he could’ve lived without.

Walsh was good. Alex was as well. Walsh had an ugly smile each round regardless of how strong his hand turned out to be, and the only emotion Mark saw in Alex’s face was exhaustion. After several rounds, Mark was out, and it was just Walsh and Alex, playing conservatively against each other.

The truth was that without the extra coins Alex had been given at the start, he might have lost. Instead when the boy revealed four 6’s for his final hand to Walsh’s flush, the final chips were handed over, and Walsh, smiling the entire time, congratulated Alex.

For just a second Mark felt relief that Alex had won. Then Mark realized that relief and hated himself for it. It hadn’t been long, but for that moment Mark had realized that only the boy was going to be tortured – and he had felt relief.

This wasn’t the making of someone who had practiced this scenario. Only a coward hid behind a child.

“And who are you picking?” Walsh asked mockingly.

“Myself,” Alex answered quietly.

“Are you sure, Alex? You’re young, and Mark here is already in pain. Will he really notice more? As I said, it’s nothing permanent.” Without giving Alex a chance to change his mind, Walsh added, “Of course, if you back out now, I might have you watch.”

“He’s choosing me,” Mark insisted.

Walsh shook a finger disapprovingly. “You didn’t win, so you’ve no say.”

“I’m not choosing him.”

“Is that your final choice?” Walsh challenged.

“Yes.”

“No, it’s not,” Mark snapped. No one else said anything, but their body language was telling. Alex gazing at some fixed point at the window behind Mark; Walsh looked ready to burst into laughter. Gregorovich was coolly examining Mark as if waiting for a sudden attack while knowing all the same that it wouldn’t present a challenge.

“Do whatever you were going to do to him to me twice,” Mark said.

“Later, perhaps,” Walsh said. “Alex, I look forward to watching you squirm later. I’m going to be doing some business this afternoon so I’m afraid I may miss the live show. Gregorovich, record it for me. Nothing permanent, remember, I’m entertaining tomorrow. But don’t stop until you’ve got a few screams in there.”

Walsh collected his cards and put them back in their wooden case. “Remember what I told you before lunch, Mark. keep your child spy on a leash and maybe your choice won’t be needed for a while.”

Mark couldn’t feel anything but shocked disbelief on their walk back. He hadn’t known what to expect from Walsh when they’d walked downstairs to join him—but it wasn’t this. The results of their talk were much worse than Mark had imagined, even knowing from last night how volatile Conan Walsh was.

Gregorovich directed a few last words to Alex before leaving them alone. “I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

It might have been better for the kid if the words had been threatening in any way. Then Mark could see an excuse for anger, which might have let the time pass faster. Instead the words were stated with unimportance – the assassin could well have said “I’ll bring fresh groceries to your nan in an hour.” The sheer lack of care Gregorovich had for the terror his words had to induce was impressive in its cruelty, and ironic in that the assassin likely wasn’t aiming to be cruel. This was a job for him. Nothing more. He was paid to hurt and kill people, so he would hurt Alex. He was paid to patch up Walsh’s victim, so he had tended to Mark’s hand when needed. It was apparent that Walsh hadn’t hired Gregorovich for his sadism, merely his practicality.

“I’ll convince him to change his mind,” Mark said as soon as they were alone. “They can hurt me instead.”

“It won’t work, and I’d fight you if it did.” Alex slumped against the wall. His eyes closed. Mark grimaced and went to shake out some more Ibuprofen. It was less than four hours from the last time he’d taken two, but could things get much worse? The pain was ever present, and the fact of their captivity hadn’t changed. Worse was that he really, truly, desperately didn’t know what to say to Alex right now. Mark went ahead and took another three.

The boy broke the tense silence. “What were you talking about before lunch?”

Even an unpleasant lie would be better than the truth. If Mark could think of a suitable lie he would give it in an instant. But assuming Alex believed it, Mark suspected Walsh might bring the truth up sooner or later. “It wasn’t something you need to worry about.”

“I’m here too.”

Yes, that was true. Still, there were things children didn’t need to know. Mark hadn’t needed to know how nasty his parent’s marriage had been (one of the reasons his girlfriend of a decade wasn’t yet his fiancé or wife).

Then again, Alex wasn’t a fool. He had to know the conversation was unpleasant. The boy was brave, too – Mark couldn’t say that he’d make the same choice under pressure at 15, if an adult near him had been offering to be the sacrifice instead. “You can’t unhear what I tell you.”

“I don’t care.”

Mark didn’t mince words. “He made me to choose which one of us should watch the other die.”

The next hour passed by, somehow. And then Alex looked to the door and stood up. Moments later Mark heard the click of the door unlock. Mark wracked his brain for comforting words. What had his mum said when he’d been upset when he was young? Nothing that would help this situation. What advice would Mark tell himself before another session of RTI?

“It’s not permanent, you’re going to be ok,” Mark said desperately.

“Sure,” Alex said. And then he was gone, and Mark was alone.

It was impossible for time to trickle by at a slower pace, and yet somehow it did. The pain in Mark’s stomach had nothing to do with the pain in his hand.

And then Alex was back.

Mark took the child in. He looked a mess. His eyes were red and there were visible tear stains on his face and hoodie. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Alex,” Mark trailed off, unsure how to proceed. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine,” Alex said tonelessly.

He clearly wasn’t.

“Was Walsh there?”

“No.” The boy eyed the empty bed. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Wait.” Mark didn’t want to push the kid, or make him relive the moments prior, but maybe Walsh’s people had been careless with the kid – let him see something he shouldn’t. An unguarded path, a spot without cameras. “Tell me where you went and what you saw – it might be useful.”

A wry smirk crossed the child’s face. “It won’t be. He didn’t show me anything.”

“The assassin was with you the entire time?”

“How many people do you think Walsh is paying to torture his ‘guests’?”

Mark wished he could say only one. Seeing how utterly sadistic Walsh seemed, Mark wouldn’t be surprised if there were more mercenaries lurking in the mansion, popping in and out on whatever business MI6 had wanted to monitor in the first place. “Did you talk at all?” Mark meant, he supposed, whether the kid had talked with Gregorovich. The two clearly knew each other, even if not well. Too late Mark realized the other meaning of the word – had Alex talked, as in spilled details of his work for MI6.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

And Mark didn’t want to either. But he had to know. “It could be useful.”

The flash of anger caught Mark by surprise. “Sure, we talked,” Alex responded maliciously. “If one person conversations mean we talked. I said stop, and don’t, and please, and he ignored me. I thought putting cigarettes out on my arm was fun, but we really forged an inspirational bond when he slid the knife underneath my thumbnail for the seventh time.”

Fucking bloody hell.

Mark resisted the urge to ask to see Alex’s nails. “You’re saying my name if we go through another round of this.”

The boy didn’t pause to consider the offer. “No, I’m not. Can I go to sleep now, or do we need to keep talking about it?”

No, that seemed unlikely to help the kid’s mental health. Mark shook his head mutely and Alex crawled into bed.

Despite his own lack of sleep, Mark couldn’t manage true sleep himself, laying on the floor with last night’s jacket folded under his head. He managed to drift off three or four times only to jerk awake to minor sounds – talking in the hallway outside (“Go take a break, I’ve got you”) or a bird outside – and his own aching body. By the time Mark woke up for the third time, he was in a such a state of muddle that he almost thought he was in his own apartment in London.

The child was sleeping as the sky outside turned dark and Mark locked himself in the bathroom for a shower. If he couldn’t sleep, he would at least be alert.

It took longer than he’d hoped to undress, fumble through the shower while keeping his cast dry, and dress again. Every second of his process was a reminder of how incapable Mark was of putting up a fight anytime soon. Of how incapable Mark was of almost anything.

Before he could brush his teeth or shave with one of the toothbrushes and razors that had been provided, Mark unlocked and opened the bathroom door. He wanted to hear if someone came for either of them.

Alex was still asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Gregorovich was back.

“Leave him alone,” Mark said. He strode forward, all thoughts of personal hygiene pushed aside. “He doesn’t need to wake up to you.”

“Dinner is waiting downstairs.”

Mark stood glaring over the assassin. “I’ll wake him up.”

Gregorovich nodded and moved out of the way. Mark reached with his good hand to shake the boy, gently, awake.

“Are you hungry?” Mark asked as the boy woke up.

Alex sat up and got out of the bed. Mark tried to spot the moment Alex noticed Gregorovich, but the boy never reacted. Again, Mark marveled at the schoolboy he’d found himself here with.

“Is he going to be there?” Alex asked.

Gregorovich shook his head.

Even in dire circumstances there were minor miracles. Now it was up to Mark to just protect the child from the man who had tortured him only a few hours ago.

They went back to the garden room they’d been in earlier. There were two plates with rice, steamed vegetables, and shrimp.

Mark took a seat and began to eat, noticing that Alex was taking time to swirl his food together with his fork. Gregorovich sat where he had earlier at the foot of the table.

One approach to hostage negotiation was to see the perspective of the captor, but he doubted that approach would work. Which meant he had to be inventive. And goading a hired killer until his ire was focused on Mark and not the child next to him was an approach Mark was willing to try.

“Feeling guilty about earlier?” Mark asked, trying to make his tone rude but not dangerous enough to be a threat.

“No,” Gregorovich said simply.

“You’re holding a child prisoner. You hurt a child. When you’re caught, they’ll lock you up for life,” Mark said steadily.

Gregorovich looked through Mark without interest. Then he shifted towards Alex. “You should eat something.”

“Don’t threaten him,” Mark challenged.

“That wasn’t a threat.”

“He should be at home with his family,” Mark said. This was ridiculous. Parents, uncle, aunt, grandma – whoever the kid had, they were the ones that had the right to care about the kid. Not this hired killer. “They can tell him to eat. You don’t get to.”

“Can we not talk about my family?” Alex interjected expressionlessly.

Another reminder that Mark really didn’t know how to talk to kids. Mark had thought he was defending the kid, but he’d only bothered the child he was trying to protect. Mark looked at the kid and wondered, for the first time, what Alex thought of this entire situation.

\--

Alex sat and eyed his food, listening to Mark continuing to talk. Could they just sit in silence?

“You’re holding a child prisoner. You hurt a child. When you’re caught, they’ll lock you up for life.”

Yassen, Alex suspected, couldn’t have cared less about what Mark was saying if he’d tried.

“You should eat something,” Yassen said. Yeah, Alex knew that.

Then the MI6 agent bumbled in again. “Don’t threaten him.”

Alex couldn’t claim to be an expert on Yassen Gregorovich. He was still certain that if the man wanted to threaten him, it would sound a lot more menacing than ‘eat something’.

“That wasn’t a threat.”

Mark didn’t stop. “He should be at home with his family. They can tell him to eat. You don’t get to.”

“Can we not talk about my family?”

This was all too much.

Mark clearly thought Alex was afraid of Yassen. That wasn’t an incorrect assumption, but it also wasn’t about earlier. It had _hurt,_ yes, and he’d rather not do it again. He’d also been through worse. Yassen had been quietly clinical, hurting him until the camera had several minutes of film of Alex begging for it to end, but Alex had never thought he was going die. Honestly, the CIA had done worse to Alex in Egypt.

It was the whole situation that was overwhelming – not Yassen’s presence. Having to think about someone else, having to consider ways for 2 people to escape safely. Knowing that the man keeping them hostage was a true sadist. Accepting that Yassen didn’t want to kill him, but also wouldn’t leave the door unlocked for Alex and Mark to escape. Dealing with Mark asking personal questions about Alex while someone else in the room had _actually_ known his dad (and then killed Ian).

And Alex didn’t have the energy for this. Mark was in this situation with him, but it wasn’t the same. Presumably, the older agent had been given a choice. MI6 had never extended that same principal to Alex.

At least Yassen was honest – if you paid him, he did it, and it wasn’t personal.

Alex finished a few bites in silence, turning over the situation in his head.

“How are you doing?” Mark asked Alex again.

“I’m fine,” Alex said. He’d been worse.

Mark’s plate was empty. Now the MI6 agent was alternating between eyeing Yassen with a glare and Alex with concern. “You should eat though. Take care of yourself. I’ll make sure you get home.”

There was nothing for Alex at home right now, but that didn’t matter. Mark didn’t have any power over this situation and they both knew it.

Alex took another bite, not tasting the food.

“I guess from now on you can tell our bosses no the 6th time too, huh?” Mark said.

It was a throwaway line, meant to break the heavy silence and imply they’d be back in London soon. Mark couldn’t have known how it sounded; the man had been in barely medicated pain for two days now.

It was still enough.

“You weren’t happy when you met me,” Alex said. “Were you upset that I was your partner because you thought I’d be an annoying schoolboy, or because MI6 was putting a schoolboy in danger?”

The stunned guilt on Mark’s face answered the question.

“I didn’t want to be here. And I never said I told MI6 yes. They asked me, and then they didn’t. The only difference between the past few times and the first 8 was that they bothered to ask first.” Alex glanced at Yassen. “I tried to go back to school. It didn’t work.”

“Alex, I didn’t know.” Mark sounded apologetic, as if that mattered.

“It doesn’t matter.” He pushed another bite of rice around the plate before placing his silverware down. “I’m done. Can I go back to sleep?”

Mark led the way back to the room and so entered first. Alex was about to follow when he felt a light hand on his shoulders.

“Alex?” Yassen asked. The question was unspoken, but Alex thought he understood regardless.

Alex saw Mark falter and turn. The man stared at them, probably anticipating some other awful event to come. This was all too much. Alex wanted to go to sleep and wake up in a year. Managing Mark’s anger against Yassen was just another thing for Alex to deal with.

“I’m fine,” Alex said. Yassen’s eyebrows raised in an uncertain expression. Alex shook the hand off his shoulder, stepped inside the room, and closed the door to his prison.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: When I started this chapter, I envisioned it as a significantly shorter and at least a little less cruel than parts of it became. While I don’t really have any specific warnings, please be advised that the characters in this story are not all people you would enjoy getting to know.

Then again, if you’ve read this far, I expect you know that.

\--

How many times had the child worked for MI6?

Mark had managed several hours of sleep last night between bouts of pain that even a medically unsound amount of Ibuprofen hadn’t helped. And all through his periods of waking, he had wondered one question above all: how many times had MI6 Special Operations forced a 15-old-child to do their work for them?

Alex had given Mark the bed and the covers and slept on the floor under a sheet. Despite the circumstances, Mark hadn’t seen Alex wake in the past 10 hours. At least, not during the time when Mark had been awake himself.

Every time he looked at the child asleep, he noticed the same thing: it was remarkable how different he looked. Mark hadn’t realized how much tension the child was carrying when he was awake, even from the first time they’d met. The child Mark had met several days ago was polite and serious. The child Mark had seen for the past few days of captivity was exhausted, both physically and, from what Mark had seen, emotionally.

MI6 should never have used a child.

And did it really matter how many times Jones – or even Blunt – had employed him? It was illegal, regardless of the length of the boy’s employment. It was immoral.

It should have never been necessary.

Mark saw the exact moment Alex woke. A sudden tension entered the boy’s features. His hands clenched briefly before releasing and he moved to rub hair out of his eyes. The boy’s blond hair was already slightly longer than Mark’s dad would have ever allowed him to keep his hair – right now it was a mess.

“Good morning,” Mark said softly. It wasn’t a good morning, but they knew that already without rubbing it in.

The grimace that crossed Alex’s features was heart tightening – not least because Mark suspected it was because of him. The child was schooling himself to face the people around him, and Mark was one of those people.

“Morning,” Alex muttered as he pushed himself up.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Sure.” Alex stood, pushing the tangled sheet off himself. He yawned, then headed to the restroom.

Mark waited until Alex was back to ask his questions. The boy sat down next to the restroom door. It was a good perch to face the door to the room, Mark admitted. Especially if you wanted to keep a few feet between yourself and whoever had just entered the room.

“Did you brush your teeth?” Mark asked, not sure how to open his questions. Alex’s hair was brushed now, so it seemed a fair guess that the child had gotten all ready for the day – whatever that day might bring. _Did you brush your teeth,_ fuck. Mark truly didn’t know how to talk to teenagers. The boy was 15, not 8.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Mark tried to come up with a question to ease into the topic of Alex’s ‘career’ with MI6, but none came to mind. Which wasn’t surprising – he hadn’t come up with anything in the past night and the last couple hours he’d been awake. “I tried to think of a better way to open this, but we should just start with the basics. How long have you been working for MI6?”

“Why?”

“We’re stuck together. Might as well get to know each other,” Mark said.

“We already did that.”

“True. But we didn’t talk about what we have in common.” Mark thought for a moment. “What was your first mission?”

Alex crossed his arms.

“Alright, classified. Got it,” Mark conceded. “What did you think of Blunt?”

Alex eyed him. “Are you supposed to be asking me these questions?”

And that answered that. Alex had been employed by MI6 for at least 5 months if he knew Blunt.

“And how many missions have you gone on?”

“For MI6? Hard to tell. In total? Still hard to tell.”

What? Mark allowed himself to look confused, hoping the child would elaborate.

He didn’t.

Maybe it would take gaining a bit more trust to get Alex to talk to him. “Do you want to know why I joined MI6 Special Operations?”

Alex shrugged.

The reason was, in truth, reasons plural, but only a part of the story was not what Mark would call “teenager appropriate.” He had been with Special Operations for a while longer yet than he’d been with his current girlfriend, after all. And in Mark’s experiences, with semi-decent looks, the ladies’ part of Bond’s reputation was not unachievable when you were visiting different cities every few weeks.

Mark told Alex the story of his early twenties that he’d hoped to one day tell his nephew Dylan, when his sister’s son was old enough to understand words but still young enough to not take Mark too seriously. Alex listened quietly the same way he’d done nights ago when Mark had told the boy about Brenda.

“So love of country?” Alex summarized, when Mark had finished the last words of his story.

Mark thought of the French, Ukrainian, and Russian women he’d met his first few years on the job.

“Just about,” he agreed.

“That seems to a popular reason.”

“I wish it could have one day been yours, assuming you had actually wanted to join Special Operations. Probably a bit late for that though.”

“I guess.”

“Still, it’s nice to visit outside the continent,” Mark confessed. “If you get the opportunity, I mean.”

Serious brown eyes studied him. “What have you done since joining MI6?” the boy asked.

Mark paused to think on how to answer that. It was all classified, of course, but perhaps he could take some tidbits of truth and turn them into falsehoods that wouldn’t get Mark in trouble with Jones. Assuming that he ever saw her again.

There was the murmur of muffled voices from behind the door, and that saved Mark the trouble of lying, for the moment. Mark stood and faced the door, putting himself between Alex and whoever was coming in. Only a minute later, Walsh walked inside, beaming. He was dressed in a jogging outfit and wearing a watch Mark hadn’t yet seen. Gregorovich entered as the silent shadow he seemed to spend his time being. He lingered next to the open door.

There was absolutely no chance that this was good news for Alex and Mark.

Walsh directed his first words at Mark. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mark replied.

Walsh looked through Mark and smiled with a vicious delight. “Alex, good morning.”

Their antagonist waited only a heartbeat for Alex to respond. When the boy stayed quiet, Walsh laughed. “Come here.”

Mark watched helplessly as Alex stood and walked to Walsh. The Irishman maintained his smile and tapped Alex twice on his cheek. Mark couldn’t see Alex’s face, but the boy must have kept himself collected because the slap or punch Mark expected didn’t come. Instead the man merely smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair.

It was impossible, at least from Mark’s vantage point, to see what (if anything) precepted the move – Walsh stepped forward suddenly and grasped Alex by the jaw. The boy stiffened but otherwise didn’t react.

“Say ‘good morning,’” Walsh instructed.

“Good morning,” Alex said.

“When my guests come later, I expect you’ll show them whatever manners your parents taught you. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Alex’s voice was somehow calm. Not relaxed, no, but restrained. Mark wasn’t even sure he could maintain his composure in those same circumstances as an adult. At 15, he wouldn’t have been able to control his anger at having his personal space violated in that way.

The man made a soft considering noise. “I wonder. Tell me, Alex, what do your parents do when you misbehave?”

After a moment of silence, he laughed. “Nothing?” He gave a squeeze. Judging from Alex’s flinch, it wasn’t gentle. “Even when you were younger? They never washed your mouth with soap?”

“No.”

“They never paddled you?”

“No.”

“Parents these days,” Walsh marveled. “Much too kind, the lot of them. When my parents disciplined me, they let me know I was in trouble. Yours never put you in time out or grounded you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did it work?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” Walsh repositioned his hand slightly and Alex squirmed. Mark saw one of Alex’s hands reach up as if to grab Walsh’s arm and then stop. “I suppose you were raised with respect, as they say. You had a choice on what you did when you were young, I suppose”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I’m not your parents, Alex. I am not giving you options. I will not put you in timeout if you misbehave. Unless you consider your situation a sort of timeout from the British intelligence services, which you well might. I am not into modern parenting. Disrespect my guests and I’ll wash your mouth with bleach.”

Walsh released Alex. 

Mark exhaled.

The Irishman looked up at Mark. “And you – Mark. Did your mum and dad paddle you when you misbehaved?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it worked? It fixed your misbehavior?”

“Not always,” Mark admitted.

“Perhaps a paddling isn’t perfect,” Walsh acknowledged. “Still, you aren’t causing me the problems this child is, so it worked at least a little.” He tilted his head and considered Mark. “You’re a bit old for a paddling now, though. So I’ll leave Gregorovich to come up with something else for you if you misbehave. You told my last guests that you’d be here until Friday, but I think I could come up with a reasonable excuse for either of you to leave my company before then. I rather think I’ll have my moratorium on permanent damage rather goes away after tonight. And speaking of temporary damage, Alex, I watched a fun video this morning.”

Alex shrugged. “It was made for you.”

“Yes, it was. I had hoped it would be fun to make, but you didn’t seem to enjoy it,” Walsh observed. “Maybe you’ll have more fun during the next one. Assuming that that a sequel is necessary.”

“I’ll be here if you want one.”

Walsh laughed. “Yes, you will be.” He put a hand on Alex’s left arm. “Was it here?”

The boy nodded slowly.

Mark had a good idea what was going to happen next. Alex had mentioned cigarettes being put out on his skin – now Walsh, who had just watched everything that had been done to Alex, was enjoying his power over the child. If it caused pain, Walsh would do it.

As Mark had predicted, Walsh squeezed Alex’s arm.

Whatever expression Alex made, it was enough to satisfy. Walsh released the child. “I hope you thank Gregorovich for how easy you had it. Now go sit down on the bed. Let the adults talk.”

Mark allowed Alex to pass him, and then repositioned himself again so that he was between the child and Walsh.

“Oh, are you going to fight me off with one good arm?” Walsh asked.

Mark shook his head. He also didn’t move.

“I’m tempted to call him back over here. Do you think you standing in between the two of us would stop me if I wanted him damaged?” The Irishman glanced for the first time over at his hired man. “If the boy makes so much as a face at me, hurt him.”

Gregorovich nodded, turning slightly to consider Alex.

The boy glanced at the hired man in response, his own face indifferent.

Walsh opened his hands invitingly. “With that settled, on to business. Your child spy has ensured that you are both invited to my soirée tonight, in the very public view of some of my friends. It’s casual dress, and I’ll have things brought up. I expect you will both be on your best behavior and maintain the cover MI6 gave you. After we met at my party the other day, I invited you to stay for a while with your misbehaving son. You have been enjoying my hospitality since then. If for some reason we separate into other rooms, please remember that story. I do have cameras and I will always have at least one of you with me.”

“We’ll keep our cover.”

“Good. There will be incredibly severe consequences for treating my friends impolitely, as I already told the child. If you break your cover, or god forbid, ask for help, you’ll be begging for death.”

“Of course,” Mark said.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Walsh acquiesced. “Make sure your younger partner understands the severity of the consequences. It will be you suffering if he doesn’t. I’ll leave the specifics to your imagination, but perhaps you could run some possibilities by the child.” Walsh glanced at his watch. “I have work to attend to, unless you have any questions.”

“No.”

“Good.” Walsh clapped his hands together. “Gregorovich will make sure you are ready before tonight. I told Alex yesterday that I’d have stronger medication for your pain dropped off, so those will arrive at some point. Until tonight, I assume you’ll keep out of trouble.”

Walsh closed the door behind him. If Mark hadn’t already heard the guard outside when Walsh had arrived, he would have known there was one now. Without a handle on the inside of the door, the only way for Gregorovich to leave would be for someone on the outside to help.

“Unlike my employer,” Gregorovich spoke for the first time, “I will not be leaving the consequences of your misbehavior to your imagination.”

“That’s not necessary,” Mark said, heeding the goosebumps on his arm. A child didn’t need to hear this. _Mark_ didn’t need to hear this. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t act out.”

“I imagine you would try. Allow me to make certain.”

There was something truly dangerous about this man, and Mark despised it. For just a moment last night, Mark could have sworn he saw a moment of concern between the assassin and Alex. Now, the pure indifference in his expression said he wouldn’t mind strangling Alex to death with his bare hands.

“Would you prefer I start with what happens to you if Alex acts out, or if what happens to him if you act out?”

“You can hurt me both times. If he acts out or I do.”

Gregorovich proceeded as if Mark hadn’t spoken. “Perhaps we start with what I will do to Alex if you are a problem.”

“No!”

“No? You won’t be a problem?” Gregorovich questioned.

“No.”

The man considered for a second. “No, perhaps you won’t. Let me assure you it would not be pleasant, and you would watch. Alex, however, has already proven he will present a problem without a particularly descriptive warning.”

Even more than he hated his captors, Mark loathed himself for the fear that he knew Gregorovich saw in him.

“You’re free to cover your ears,” the assassin said. He took in Mark’s mangled right hand and raised an eyebrow. _Or perhaps not._

Mark almost cursed the man out. He would have if he was certain Alex wouldn’t take the assassin’s retribution. Alex – Mark realized he hadn’t heard from the boy for several minutes.

Alex was perched on the edge of the bed, as Walsh had instructed him to be. His hands were clenching the edge of the mattress and he looked so tired Mark could have believed he’d stayed up all night.

“I’m not going to do anything,” he said.

“That is good for your friend,” Gregorovich said. “If you have the inclination to become a problem, remember this. There are knives and bleach in the kitchen. Your partner has managed to get by with one hand. What else does he only need one of?”

“I got it.”

“In which case, perhaps I will allow your imagination to choose the third place I maim him. The second will be his right eye.”

Mark needed to imagine those words were about _anyone_ other than himself.

“Am I clear?”

There was a definite line in the child’s jaw, but he nodded without speaking all the same.

Hard to follow those words up, though.

Mark would have to try. He eyed the hitman. It was time to see what he could get out of the man. Ignore the man’s threats – Mark was the adult MI6 agent in the room; the one responsible for getting them out of this.

Showing the man he wasn’t afraid would be a definite plus. “Gregorovich,” he said. Both Gregorovich and Alex looked at him. The hitman was unreadable, but the child was definitely wary.

“I need to speak to you alone.”

Was it telling that Alex looked reluctant about that prospect? Probably, but Mark didn’t know the story between the two enough to know why. Or perhaps the boy wanted to feel involved in the conversation.

“You can speak here.”

Fine. Mark would make do. “Alex, go turn the shower on and close the door.”

Alex didn’t move.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow.

It would be better if he could keep Alex out of this, in case it went poorly. It also didn’t seem that was the current reality.

“What do you want to get us out of here?” Mark asked.

Gregorovich shook his head. “That is not an option.”

“MI6 has connections. People in all sorts of places, even places you wouldn’t expect.”

The assassin showed his first hint of personality with a sardonic smile. “I am aware.”

“Then you know how useful it is to make alliances with us.”

“Perhaps once upon a time.”

In the corner of Mark’s eye, Alex turned away.

“MI6 can arrange a ransom.” Officially they didn’t – the United Kingdom had publicly entered into an agreement that prohibited paying ransoms to terrorists and hostage takers years ago. Unofficially, Mark had heard things. The Queen’s Government wouldn’t pay the money demanded themselves. But they would arrange talks between kidnappers and the families of the hostages.

“With who?”

Mark wasn’t sure – he hadn’t yet found out about Alex’s family, but his own was dirt poor and his girlfriend only moderately well off – but it didn’t really matter. Gregorovich’s question wasn’t an invitation to expand but a dismissal.

“Whatever you want, MI6 can get it for you,” Mark offered.

“Oh?” Gregorovich asked. “And what do I want?”

Money, probably.

Which they didn’t have.

Mark grimaced.

Talking to the hitman had been a long shot anyway, and Mark wasn’t fool enough to not recognize when his attempts at talking had failed.

When nothing was forthcoming, Gregorovich nodded and moved on. “Do you want something to eat? I can bring something up.”

Some dark wondering in Mark’s brain questioned how often the assassin had dealt with people offering him bribes to spare their lives. He shoved that question away with the threat against his body parts – he had practicalities to deal with. “Alex, what do you want for breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Coffee?”

Alex shrugged.

“You have to have something.” At Alex’s indifference, Mark took charge. “We’ll have eggs and toast. Coffee as well.”

Gregorovich knocked on the inside of the door to be let out. When whoever was outside opened the door, he left as quietly as he entered, leaving Mark and Alex suddenly alone again.

Well, good. They were safer without either of those men here. And Mark had questions for Alex.

\--

The difference between being held prisoner by a madman and being held prisoner by a madman with another captive in the same room was the ability to think clearly, Alex was convinced. Mark was…truly an agent of MI6. Alex could remember his interrogation underground at the bank after he’d been grabbed in Mrs. Jones’s apartment. The experience was not one of his fonder memories. The interrogator’s questions had been constant and repetitive.

Mark’s were the same. He had about 5 that he’d been circling through for the past five hours: How old were you when you started working for MI6? How did MI6 choose you? Where have you been? What have you done? And there was Alex’s personal favorite – Where is your family? Mark would cycle through a few in a couple minutes, give Alex a few minutes of quiet, and then be back with the questions again. Alex had locked himself in the restroom and taken a long shower in the middle of the day just to get some peace. Of course, time in captivity passed differently, and despite the length of time Alex had spent with a door between them, the sun was still in the same place when Alex went back into the main room. And in that time, the stronger pain medication that had been recently delivered had clearly taken effect. Apparently when Mark Corwynne wasn’t in large amounts of pain, he was astute. Some of the guesses Mark had started making based on small facial reactions Alex had unwittingly shown were _alarmingly_ close to truths about Alex’s life. Not that Alex would ever admit it.

About the only times Mark had been certain to not ask questions were the brief moments Yassen entered the room. And those respites, brief through they were, provided their own twisted version of ‘fun’. Yassen hadn’t addressed Alex since that morning’s most recent warnings against misbehavior, but he had exchanged several remarks with Mark. So far, they’d been harmless exchanges about things Mark and Alex needed, but since Mark had tried to bribe Yassen that morning, Alex had only been waiting with dread for the agent’s most recent terrible idea to take light.

Alex was positive it wasn’t just him. Both he and Mark had to have a low-lying constant terror of the moment the other decided to do something ‘smart’. Yassen’s threats towards Mark had been specific and his threats towards Alex vague, but the words weren’t really the part that caused the terror.

No, that was the certainty that Yassen would follow through.

It was like the old trope in movies and tv: it’s a promise, not a threat.

Did Mark trying to bribe Yassen count as misbehavior? Was Walsh going to come back in with his ugly grin and tell Yassen to hurt him again? It seemed unlikely, but Alex wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t put it past Walsh to have a pleasant countenance throughout his dinner party with friends and then reveal an unpleasant after-dinner-torture-session the minute his guests had left.

And Walsh had mentioned this was his last public event for a few days. Meaning if he wanted to dispose of Alex – or maim him more permanently – after tonight was the time.

About the only thing separating Alex from panic over Mark’s behavior was the fact that the person Mark had tried to turn was Yassen. And Yassen seemed, if not unwilling to hurt Alex, at least reluctant to have to.

Not that it mattered the moment Walsh spoke.

Alex wished he could go back to last night when Yassen had taken the moment to ‘check up on him’ and tell the man to go to hell. Yassen – probably – wasn’t petty enough to hurt Alex for a curse. 

He sighed and refocused on the present. Mark was staring at him again. “What?” Alex asked. Not that it really mattered. He hadn’t answered any of Mark’s questions since before he the man had forced him to eat something for breakfast. This would just be another question to ignore.

“You there?” Mark asked.

_I wish I wasn’t._

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Where is your family in all of this, kid?”

_Rolling in their graves._

“Where are yours?”

“Not the question,” Mark countered. “I’m not the 15-year-old being forced onto dangerous assignments.”

Alex could admit that at least Mark was trying to help. The man’s questions had taken on a decidedly anti-MI6 bent in the past few hours as the man seemed to accept that Alex was telling the truth last night about being forced onto this mission.

Once again, the door opening brought respite from the questions. Mark shut his mouth and stood back.

Alex should find it reassuring that Mark insisted on standing between Alex and anyone else who entered their prison. In honesty, it was an annoying façade of safety. If Walsh or Yassen wanted to hurt Alex, Mark wasn’t protection. They’d already proved _that_ fact.

Yassen was holding a stack of clothes. He tossed it on the bed and then leaned against the wall. “Get dressed.”

Mark walked to the bed and rifled through some clothes. Once he had his outfit, he turned to face Alex. “I’m going to go change. Stay there and don’t say anything.”

“Sure,” Alex agreed. What did Mark think Alex was going to talk about - the incredibly unnecessary threats they’d gotten this morning?

Then again, if Mark thought trying to bribe the assassin holding them hostage with the power of MI6’s thanks was a _good_ idea, Alex couldn’t imagine what _bad_ ideas Mark thought Alex capable of.

Alex eyed Yassen warily for a moment but ended up resting his head against his knees after he realized the man was more interested in his phone than in Alex.

It must be the sign of a deranged mind to prefer being a captive alone than with someone else. That said, the space without Mark was quiet. It could be peaceful, ignoring the killer in the room and his boss in the mansion and the threat very real pain permanently hanging over his head.

Before Alex was ready, Mark was back and directing him to get changed. Alex took the clothes he’d been brought and went into the restroom.

The clothes were, as Walsh had said earlier, casual. There was a long sleeve navy polo and khaki slacks. Walsh hadn’t sent Alex another watch.

Alex took the ace of hearts he’d stolen from Walsh yesterday out of his pants pocket and put it on the counter. He still wasn’t sure what the card would be good for, especially without a lock or handle on the inside of the door, but it made him feel better just to have something that Walsh didn’t know about.

He changed quickly, stopping only a moment to examine the bandage on his forearm before he put the polo on. His burns hadn’t hurt today, thankfully. At least they hadn’t except for when Walsh had squeezed his arm. Alex left his old clothes in a small pile under the counter and slipped the card into the new slacks. He was ready as he was going to be.

“The guests will be here soon,” Yassen said, as soon as Alex stepped back into the bedroom. “I don’t expect any problems from David Windon or his son.”

“Of course not,” Mark said tersely. “You’re still going by Dimitri Lucas?”

Yassen nodded slightly.

“Ready?” Mark asked Alex.

“Sure.”

The guard outside their room headed down the hall in the opposite direction as soon as Yassen confirmed they were heading downstairs. Alex eyed the oil paintings on the wall as they walked downstairs. They all appeared to be the portraits of family members. Walsh may have made his fortune from crime, but he clearly didn’t come from nothing.

Downstairs, they entered the dining room off the main hallway. It was the same room as the dinner two nights ago. Alex noticed without surprise the changed tablecloth. Presumably the one they’d left with Mark’s blood on it was ruined.

Conan Walsh was wearing a brown blazer over a white button up with jeans. A signature overly expensive timepiece adorned his wrist. The moment they entered the room he smiled at them. And then, because Alex was obviously such an attraction, Walsh’s gaze sharpened in on him.

“Alex, good afternoon,” Walsh said as he walked over.

Mark reached out and touched Alex on the shoulder. The older agent was trying to help him, Alex knew, but it was just more proof that Mark didn’t realize how unfortunately capable Alex was when he needed to be. Walsh’s words were such obvious bait that Alex could go fishing for sharks with them. If it made Walsh happy to have Alex dangling like a puppet on a string, he could play along.

“Good afternoon,” Alex replied.

Walsh smiled appreciatively. “Good boy. It would have been a shame to start this affair telling you about an unfortunate consequence waiting for you after it all. Do you remember what I promised to do if you forgot your manners?”

“Yes.” Alex wondered if there was a guidebook for sociopaths published somewhere on the internet read by all of the sick people who liked to play these ‘games’ with people. If such a book existed, by this point Alex’s experiences had to contain a chapter’s worth of material into how to threaten someone.

“Good. Enjoy tonight but do keep that old precept in mind: seen and not heard. I’ll be watching for it.” Walsh clapped his arm against Alex’s – in the same spot the bandage was, again – and then headed out of the room into the hallway.

A large chapter’s worth, Alex amended.

“Maybe don’t talk unless someone speaks to you?” the older agent muttered.

“I got that.”

Outside the dining room, Alex heard front door open, and then several people exchange greetings. The first guests were here.

Walsh entered the room with a couple Alex had met the other night, Paul and Esther, and a tall man Alex didn’t recognize. The couple headed over to them while the tall man and Walsh walked to a table near the doorway. It covered in glasses and hard liquor bottles Walsh poured whisky into two glasses.

Paul and Esther greeted them all and began to talk about the weather they’d had the past few days.

“Alex,” came an unfamiliar voice. Alex looked across the room to see Walsh and his friend looking at him expectantly.

“I’ll join you,” Mark said, noticing the pair across the room.

“No, stay here.” Whatever was next, it was for him alone.

“This is him?” The tall man questioned when Alex joined them.

Walsh nodded. “Darrah, meet Alex. Alex, this is a good friend of mine, Darrah Ryan.”

Alex had met a lot of unscrupulous people in the past year and a half. Darrah Ryan was one of them, he knew instinctively. The way Ryan looked at him made Alex want to shudder – like he was an insect in a glass.

“He looks a bit rough,” Ryan said to Walsh. “What have you been doing to him?”

There was something in Ryan’s tone that gave Alex a suspicion that some of Walsh’s guests weren’t quite as oblivious to the true nature of Alex’s stay as others.

“Does he?” Walsh questioned. “How unfortunate. Perhaps he’s not feeling the spirit of the evening. Smile, Alex.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

Alex had joined the theatre club at school for a while, in a moment where it had seemed that MI6 would finally let him be. The acting games he’d done during practices were about to come in handy. _Pretend Jack is here, instead of Walsh._

Alex gave as much as a smile as he could muster.

He hoped both men choked on their food at dinner.

“How old is he, 16?”

“Fifteen,” Alex answered.

“Did I ask you?” Ryan asked mildly.

“Sorry.”

Ryan tilted his head. “Did I ask for that apology either?”

At Alex’s silence, the man nodded in delayed approval. “At least he’s not completely dense. Although I don’t suppose a thick schoolboy would last long staying with you.”

“He’s clever,” Walsh acknowledged. “It’s why he’s still here.”

“I remember what you told me. Hard to control, is he?”

“I don’t think he’ll be a problem anymore, after his last lesson. I’ll show you it later.”

Alex had wondered if Walsh would keep the video evidence of a child being tortured in his mansion. It didn’t seem like a good idea, but then again, no one had helped Alex or Mark yet. If people being held hostage were ignored even when MI6 likely had an idea where they were, there was little hope that a video laying around Walsh’s mansion somewhere would somehow lead to problems for the man.

“Another time, though. Right now, there are drinks and friends to attend to. And Alex has quite a few people to make a different impression on. He’s assured me he’ll be on his best behavior tonight.”

Mark was about 5 meters away, near the table. He was still talking to the couple and Yassen. Alex had wanted either Paul or Esther to look over and decide to join the conversation, but no one in the other group was paying attention to Walsh, Alex, and Ryan.

“What does best behavior mean to you?”

Alex assumed the question was directed to Walsh. A second later he was proven wrong. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Ryan said sharply. The man gave Alex a second to focus on him. “If you want to apologize, now would be the time.”

“Sorry,” Alex repeated.

“That’s his best behavior?” Ryan asked. Walsh took a drink and then wagged his finger mockingly at Alex. Ryan smirked. “Try again. Be specific, or I might worry you’re insincere.”

Clearly Walsh wasn’t the only one in his group of friends who enjoyed toying with others. Would the others at this dinner be the same? The couple Alex had met two nights ago had seemed nice enough, but that was before Alex had ruined Walsh’s fun at the poker table.

“I’m sorry for not looking at you when you were speaking,” Alex said.

If Jack could hear Alex speaking right now, she would hit Walsh. If Ian could hear him…

Alex didn’t know. What he knew was that the manners Walsh thought parents should teach their children were different from the manners Alex had been raised with.

“Better,” Ryan commended.

Walsh poured himself another finger of whisky. “You can meet his father now if you’d like. Unfortunately, he’s gotten into a rather nasty accident. I won’t discuss it at length –it was quite unpleasant and gory. But I’ll mention Alex didn’t make it better. Quite the opposite, according to the doctor.” Walsh smiled sympathetically. “I hope you don’t feel too guilty, Alex. You were only trying to help.”

“Do you feel guilty?” Ryan asked curiously.

“Yes.”

A man and woman walked into the room then and saw Walsh. “Conan,” the woman exclaimed, and she led her partner over by the hand. “We’re delighted you invited us!” She saw Alex and dropped her partner’s hand to offer her own to Alex. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Rose, and this is my husband Liam.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Alex.”

The new couple began to talk to Walsh and Ryan about their week, and Alex walked away. Walsh would call him back if the man wanted to torment him more, he was sure. Alex avoided the second group and went to sit at the farthest edge of the dinner table.

There were only ten spots set at the table. Unlike the last time there weren’t name cards set up, which meant there was the chance Alex could try to sit next to people who weren’t actively tormenting him. Walsh would sit at the head of the table. The rest of the dinner party would have to arrange themselves.

Alex counted the number of people around the room. There was Walsh, Darrah Ryan, Paul, Esther, Liam, Rose, and Yassen. Once Mark and Alex were added to the count, nine out of ten people were here.

At least three of those people would hurt Alex without a second thought.

Alex recognized the last person that entered the dining room from the evening a couple of nights ago. He hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with the man and couldn’t remember his name, but the man had been at the poker table when Alex had played. The man saw Alex gazing at him and raised a hand briefly before he joined one of the two groups of people talking.

For the most part, though, Alex was being left alone.

The peace didn’t last long.

Yassen wandered over and sat down next to Alex at the table. He held himself casually, his expression perfectly friendly. He was sipping a dark liquor. Anyone looking over would probably think he was stopping to ask Alex about school. “Stop making a scene.”

“I’m sitting down.”

“You’re sulking.”

Alex could have laughed in sheer exhaustion at the whole thing. “You heard what your boss told me, right?”

“Yes. Be seen.”

“There was a second part as well – don’t be heard. Everyone can see me, and no one’s hearing me. Mission accomplished.”

Yassen smiled as if they were having a pleasant conversation. “You wanted people to know you were visiting for at least a week. Now you are visiting for the week. Play your part.”

Did Yassen not get paid if Alex didn’t look miserable enough? Alex wasn’t enough of a fool to ask that question, but if not for Mark, he might have been tempted.

“Stand up. Find your partner and introduce yourself to the people he is talking to. Remind him someone else depends on his good behavior.” Yassen left the table before Alex could argue.

Mark was still talking to Paul and Esther. The man that had just entered the room had joined them. Alex walked over reluctantly.

“All right?” Mark asked, as if there was anything Alex could say except yes.

“Yeah.”

The final member of the dinner party introduced himself as Sean O’Sullivan, and Alex introduced himself as David’s son.

A few more moments of idle chatter occurred before Walsh started inviting his guests to take a seat.

Alex headed towards the end of the table with Esther, Paul, and Mark. Esther and Paul had been nice enough yesterday.

“Alex, come over here.” Walsh was sitting at the head of table as Alex had expected. The man beckoned Alex over with his hand, then pointed to the empty seat next to him. “Sit there.”

Ryan sat down on the other side of Alex. “I’m looking forward to getting to know each other some more,” the man muttered.

Alex fixed his gaze on the empty place setting in front of him.

The chatter around the table subsided as everyone sat down. Two waiters began to bring out salads.

“David, tell us about yourself,” Liam said. “All I know if Conan says he has guests at the moment.”

Over the salad, Mark spoke with the other adults about his life in London, and his work in investments. Alex recognized the details from the file he’d read on the way to Ireland.

The salad plates were cleared away and the main course brought out while the other adults introduced details from their lives – facts about their children, where they lived, what they did for work. Darrah Ryan mentioned he was involved in importing and exporting goods into the country. Alex dully wondered if the product was drugs, weaponry, or something darker.

The adults’ wine glasses were filled as they began to eat. Luckily for Mark – maybe because of Mark – there was nothing on their plates that would need cutting up.

“I’m wondering about you, Alex,” Ryan said. For the first time, attention turned to him. “I know you’re David’s son, and obviously you’re a schoolboy, but what do you do in your free time?”

“Football, mostly,” Alex said. He might as well stick close to the truth.

“And trouble, from what David’s told me.” Walsh shook his head in mock reproach. “I’ve seen some of it myself. My first-time meeting Alex was a few days ago. David was attending my party when his son snuck away from him and into my bedroom. Apparently, he was trying to find something to steal. I keep my watches locked away to prevent things like this, but it was quite the introduction. Liam, you were in the room when they brought him to me. He was making a ridiculous scene at the time.”

“You should have called the police,” Liam said.

“Was it really that bad?” Liam’s wife asked.

“Rose, if our son had tried anything similar, I would have called the police.”

“Well, what were you stealing for?” Rose looked at Alex expectantly.

“Drug money, I’d assume,” Ryan said. He was clearly amused. “Or maybe just the thrill of the steal. Which would you say, Alex?”

Alex shrugged.

“It’s nice of you to let him stay. Even with your and David’s business together, dealing with a teenager afoot must be a lot to handle. My children were always well behaved, but there are always days,” Sean said.

“It was a generous offer,” Mark said.

“And I heard something about a poker game?” Ryan asked.

Walsh’s face coloured.

Esther jumped in to explain what she’d seen of the game, the bet Walsh and Alex had made, and Alex’s winning hand.

“I thought he must have cheated,” Paul remarked. “It was the brashest wager I’ve ever seen, and from a teenager!”

“Yes, it was a good hand,” Walsh admitted morosely. “Alex was up to some mischief that night as well though. Apparently, he wasn’t a fan of missing a party in London, so he spent the night of my game night walking around and spreading vicious rumors about me.”

Ryan tutted.

“So that’s what was happening,” Esther remarked. “Judith said something odd to me about the other night, but I knew of course it wasn’t true.”

“It sounds like he has some apologies to make,” Ryan said.

“I won’t force him, of course.” Walsh looked at Alex expectantly.

Alex looked around the table. “I’m sorry if I bothered anyone.”

“A personal apology would be polite.”

Alex was starting to resent Ryan as much as Walsh.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your game,” Alex told Walsh. Then he addressed Esther and Paul. “And I’m sorry I bothered you both.”

“And Dimitri introduced you the table where I was playing,” Walsh noticed. “You may owe him an apology as well.”

Alex’s hand tightened on his silverware.

Yassen was smiling, but he shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”

Walsh laughed. All traces of his upset over his loss were gone. “You’re letting him off the hook, Dimitri. Alex, apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Now, is that the best you can do?” Ryan prompted.

“Leave the boy be,” Esther admonished.

“Of course,” Ryan said. “I thought Alex was attempting to be sincere, but if we’re just practicing form, then I suppose that apology sufficient. Conan, maybe he can practice later.”

Alex dug his fingers into leg. “I’m sorry that I caused a scene when you invited me to play poker.”

Yassen tilted his head in acceptance.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ryan asked. “It can smart, learning to give an apology. But it’s a skill well worth having.”

“I got out of several bits of trouble of my own by having a proper apology,” Sean agreed.

Walsh sighed. “Similarly, after the scene Alex caused here the other night, I could only think of my own mistakes in my youth. Alex is lucky his father is the kinder sort than my own was. With or without an apology my father would have had me beat.”

“Well Conan, you have to remember that our generation was still enduring the Troubles. Not that Alex would know anything about that, he’s obviously from England, but our people had to be tough. The young aren’t the same anymore,” Rose said.

“They’re much softer now,” Liam agreed. “But maybe the older generation will always think the younger one is spoiled. My parents would tell me they spoiled me once a day.”

“But they still disciplined you, darling,” Rose said.

“When I was young, I would thank my parents if they needed to slap me,” Walsh commented.

That had clearly turned out well.

Walsh eyed Alex. “I wonder if you would benefit from a light beating. Are you someone that benefits from what psychologists now label abuse?”

There was a limit to how much of this Alex could tolerate. “I don’t think anyone does.”

“That was a rhetorical question, Alex. The young never think they deserve what they need in order to grow. To be honest, you probably would benefit. What do you think, David?”

For the rest of dinner, the conversation focused on methods of punishment the adults thought necessary to correct the behavior of rebellious teenagers. No one explicitly mentioned Alex, but there were more than a few looks thrown his way. And when Sean and Liam got into a debate between the effectiveness of shock therapy versus a lobotomy, the entire table paused as Ryan asked Alex which he’d prefer.

Alex couldn’t finish the rest of his meal.

Ryan looked delighted.

After everyone except Alex had finished their meal, Walsh stood and invited everyone to join him for more drinks. Alex stayed at the table while the adults headed over to the alcohol table to refill drinks. Esther lingered for a second as well.

“Are you feeling well?” Esther asked. “Conan can get a bit carried away at times.”

“I’m fine.” Alex forced a smile.

Esther offered him a sympathetic smile before she went to join the rest of the party. Alex closed his eyes for just a minute. Then he sighed, opened his eyes again, and walked to join Mark. He stood and listened to a minute of chatter about rugby before he was targeted again.

“Alex, come here,” Walsh invited. The man was standing with Ryan and Rose.

Alex walked over before he could wonder what was next.

A part of him didn’t even blame Walsh. Twice in a row Alex had interrupted Walsh’s parties and disrupted his image. From what Alex had seen the man was a narcissist who expected his guests to revolve around him. Alex had spread rumors about the man and then ‘won’ his watch in a game while his friends watched. Walsh probably saw humiliating Alex as deserved retribution.

“One of the things I was talking to Alex about before dinner was that in my day, children responded when they were talked to. How do you think he’s doing?” Walsh asked. “It’s amazing how much he’s picked up in the past two days. I almost think I could insult him to his face and he wouldn’t say anything.”

Hadn’t that been all of dinner?

Yassen locked eyes with him from across the room. Alex schooled his expression and looked away quickly. Everything was fine. No one was being shot or tortured. There was no need for Walsh to resort to hurting anyone after his party.

It was under control.

“Despite your touch and go manners, it’s been nice to meet you,” Ryan said. “I’m glad you and your father could join us. It’s been quite a lot of fun having you here tonight.”

Alex couldn’t say the feeling was mutual.

“Have you enjoyed your stay with Conan so far?” Rose asked.

Alex hesitated.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, darling,” Rose smiled cheekily. It was impossible to tell if the woman was in on the facade or not, but Alex didn’t think so. She didn’t know that every misstep Alex took had the possibility of severe pain later that evening. She just thought it was funny to laugh at his obvious discomfort. Did that make her better than Walsh, or just a less intimidating version of him?

“It was a kind invitation, but I think I’m ready to go home,” Alex said.

Ryan smiled at that answer. “What a shame, since you’ll be here so long. I’m looking forward to seeing you at Friday’s game night. Although I suppose now we know better than to play against you.”

“Everyone has their lucky days,” Walsh said. “But enough talk of poker for now. We’ll have more time for that Friday.”

Walsh raised his voice and began to project his voice. Both the people around Alex and the group with Mark stopped their own chatter to listen to their host. “Everyone, I hate to interrupt. But I was thinking that while the waitstaff readies desserts, we might take a brief walk. It’s not unbearable outside with a jacket.”

“A brief walk,” Esther accepted.

“Marvelous. I had a new hedge put in this summer. Let’s grab our jackets and proceed,” Walsh said in a jovial tone as he took a few steps towards the hall.

“I don’t know if my son has a jacket down here,” Mark said. Walsh waved a hand as if to dismiss the worry.

“Let the boy go outside without a jacket. It might be uncomfortable, but he’ll toughen up,” Ryan said.

“Does he have a jacket upstairs? He could go and fetch it.”

Alex didn’t say anything. He’d been through worse than a chilly evening without a jacket, but he hadn’t been asked to give his opinion.

“Alex will be fine. Are we all ready? Or do we have any more concerns?” There was a touch of impatience in Walsh’s tone.

“Instead of looking for jackets, I was hoping to show Alex the telescope in the library,” Yassen said.

“You have a telescope, Conan?” Rose asked.

“Yes, but it’s old,” Walsh dismissed. “I’m not sure it’s worth the boy’s time.”

Sean raised his glass at Alex mockingly. “Shooting stars are a better practice for a child to study than shooting up.”

Because Alex hadn’t heard enough accusations that he was a druggie at school.

“Alex mentioned he was in the astronomy league at school,” Yassen remarked.

Moments of the party had passed in almost a blur, but Alex was positive that he hadn’t.

Rose laughed. “Conan, you can’t let him mess around in your mansion again, dear god. Wasn’t he stealing your valuables the other day?”

Walsh considered Alex then shrugged in annoyance. “He won’t be alone. And if he breaks it, he’ll pay for another. No one has used that telescope in at least five years. Maybe Alex will get some use from it while us adults are outside.”

“Interested?” Yassen asked.

Coming from Yassen, it wasn’t really a choice.

Mark hadn’t been much help tonight, not that Alex thought he would be, but Alex still looked towards Mark almost instinctively. The older agent’s hand was clenched tightly around the stem of his glass.

“Sounds great.” Alex couldn’t have sounded further from enthusiastic. The increasingly drunk adults around him couldn’t care less. Perhaps it meant a little less amusement at Alex’s expense, but he’d back for round two of their attention when dessert was ready. Possibly while hiding some new hidden injury.

“This way,” Yassen said. Alex followed. There weren’t any other options that even had the potential of ending peacefully.

He glanced back at the rest of the group as they headed up the stairs. They were putting on jackets and chattering without a care in the world. Most of them still had drinks in their hands.

Mark was watching Alex go.

And then they were out of sight of the group, on the second floor of the mansion. Alone.

Yassen led them to a library on the second floor. The room had several floor-to-ceiling-length bookcase filled with richly colored tomes.

“The telescope is over there,” Yassen said. As if that was the true reason they’d both come to this room. Maybe Alex would have been interested if this was a school trip to an observatory. Instead Alex just glanced at the telescope in the window alcove as he trailed the assassin across the room. There was a grey door on the opposite wall. It had a keypad above the handle. Yassen keyed in a code and opened the door. 

The guard who had been in the garden room yesterday was inside, watching footage of the mansion.

“Wait outside,” Yassen instructed. The guard left the small room without a word. Alex watched as the man took a seat in the library, then he followed Yassen into the smaller room.

The room was the size of a large closet. There was a desk, and on the desk were 4 large monitors showing images of the interior and exterior of the mansion. There was a chair tucked into the desk, and two metal foldable chairs leaning against the back wall. Yassen took a seat at the desk. Alex unfolded one of the metal chairs and took a seat.

Yassen watched the video feeds silently. Alex took in the images on the screen for a moment, feeling that there was some scene he was missing. He didn’t know what to look for.

“Why are we here?” Alex asked at last.

“Did you want to be in there?”

“No.” Alex would happily never see any of those people again if he had the chance. True, no one besides Walsh and maybe Darrah Ryan seemed intent on physically hurting him, but they also hadn’t seemed shy of making fun of a troubled schoolboy to his face, as if that would help someone who needed help.

“Then not being in there is why we’re here.” Yassen glanced back at Alex, unreadable as always. “The party can survive twenty minutes without you.”

Onscreen, high definition images of the rest of the group could be seen walking around the side of the mansion.

This wasn’t some large gesture of kindness, Alex knew that. They would have to go back when dessert was served. Alex would return to the party’s punching bag as soon as Walsh’s guests grew tired of the frigid gardens.

It was still a moment to breathe. A small moment for Alex to not have to pretend everything was great – that another man’s life wasn’t in the balance if he so much as smiled at the wrong time.

How mistreated had Alex looked if _Yassen_ thought he needed a break?

Alex looked at the rooms shown on the monitor in greater detail. He recognized several rooms from his first night sneaking around the mansion, and some from later. One room stuck out to him as the place he’d been accosted by the guard at Walsh’s party.

“Is this how your people found me the first night?”

“I imagine so.”

“They told me they hadn’t found evidence of a security network in his house,” Alex said. “They only knew there were cameras on the outside.” Cameras had been mentioned earlier, but Alex had thought they were lying based on what MI6 had told him.

It was darkly ironic how often Mrs. Jones was wrong, for the head of MI6’s Special Operations.

Yassen turned to make eye contact with Alex. “Don’t tell others the information you know for free.”

Probably good advice if Alex wasn’t going to be dead soon. “It doesn’t matter now. You’ve already found me.”

“Even now,” Yassen said quietly. “If you weren’t asked, don’t volunteer.”

Yassen’s advice was basically the policy Alex had begun to adopt with Mark.

Thinking of the other agent reminded Alex of the question he’d dwelled on earlier for longer than he’d care to admit. They were already talking; Alex didn’t lose anything by asking (e _xcept hearing the answer.)_

“What happens to me if Mark does anything you don’t like?”

It took a minute for Yassen to respond. “If possible, I would find a way to deflect the punishment onto your partner.”

Of course. That answer wasn’t unexpected, given what Yassen had already admitted to Alex. Yassen didn’t want to hurt Alex.

But he would if Walsh said to.

Maybe Alex ought to feel guilty that he _didn’t_ feel guilty that if Mark did anything that bothered Walsh, he would be the one hurt instead of Alex.

It didn’t matter. Alex had already gotten Mark hurt. At least one of them should stay in good health in case an escape attempt was ever possible.

“Guess you had enough fun hurting me yesterday, huh?” Alex gave a tired laugh.

“No,” Yassen admitted.

That made two of them. Alex hadn’t been a fan of being tied to a chair and hurt for the benefit of a camera either.

“At least your boss enjoyed it.”

The room grew quiet again, Yassen and Alex back at their silent truce. There really wasn’t much to say, despite everything. If there had been, Alex would have tried it already. Yassen cared enough to not directly kill Alex without it being part of his job. He didn’t care enough to help Alex for longer than a few minutes at a time

Alex took in the placement of the security cameras, noticing that the bedrooms, even his and Marks, weren’t on the monitors. He tried to memorize what the cameras could see. On screen, Walsh’s group was heading back into the mansion. Alex surveyed the monitors until he found the one showing the dining room.

The table was set with cakes and dessert wine. It was time to go back.

Yassen stood.

Alex should stand, really. Should go back to the party and sit through whatever veiled insults and petty talk were thrown his way next. Maybe it would even be worth trying a drink. Sure, he’d hated almost every taste of alcohol Ian and the Pleasures had ever offered him, but it might also be a distraction.

“Alex?”

He was _so tired of this_. Alex closed his eyes.

He counted 14 seconds before he felt a light tap under his chin. Reluctantly, Alex opened his eyes.

“Alright?”

No. Yes. He could be fine if needed, but he really didn’t want to be.

His expression must have conveyed at least some of that because Yassen nodded and his hand dropped. “Two more minutes.”

Which wasn’t nearly the amount of time Alex needed, but it would have to do. Yassen had a job to do, after all.

\--

“Interested?” Gregorovich asked Alex.

The boy looked towards Mark for a second as if he could help. Mark’s stomach churned. Someone needed to object to this. Gregorovich couldn’t just take Alex somewhere else and do whatever terrible thing he had planned to the boy.

And yet he could. And Mark couldn’t say a single thing to stop him.

His fingers on his good hand were turning white with how hard he was holding his glass.

“Sounds great.”

Jesus, Alex even sounded rough.

But that wasn’t new. Walsh’s entertainment that evening had revolved around publicly tormenting Alex. The man clearly still held a grudge against Alex’s previous escapades.

Gregorovich and Alex left the room with everyone else. But while Mark’s group grabbed jackets from the foyer and chatted about the lineups in a previous match, Mark watched the child head up the stairs.

Hell was making idle chatter about things that didn’t matter while a 15-year-old boy was being hurt for no reason other than a narcissist’s pleasure.

It was three minutes past when Mark’s group arrived back to a set dessert table, and Alex wasn’t back yet.

They boy hadn’t been gone long enough for the worst to happen, Mark supposed. Then again, perhaps they had. Maybe Alex wouldn’t be back at all.

If Gregorovich had hurt Alex again…hells, Mark didn’t know. But the kid was his responsibility.

“This is the most exquisite crème brûlée I have ever seen,” Rose remarked. “Liam, don’t you agree?”

“I would love to taste it too,” Liam replied. “Conan, where’s your Russian?”

“That is an excellent question,” Walsh agreed.

“Oh, give the poor boy the chance to play. Goodness knows Conan isn’t using the telescope.”

“He’s staying with me; he can mess with it later.” Mark’s stomach twisted at the unmasked irritation in Walsh’s tone. Walsh snapped at the only waiter in the room. “Go fetch Dimitri from the library. Tell him we’re all waiting.”

“No need.”

Mark would know Gregorovich’s voice anywhere by now. He exhaled and turned in his seat, half expecting to see the assassin striding in by himself.

“Alex,” Mark breathed.

The kid glanced at him and slid into his seat across the table.

“I hope you have a good reason for running late,” Ryan joked.

“Of course.” Gregorovich smiled but did not elaborate. No one pressed him further.

“You feeling alright?” Mark kept his tone light, but he was positive Alex would understand some of the worry Mark had been feeling.

“I’m fine.” Alex gave the same imitation of a smile that Mark had seen on the boy’s face all evening.

Mark couldn’t say he felt reassured.

He also couldn’t do anything about it.

All through dinner Mark had tried to ignore the feeling that Alex’s discomfort was as much the main course for the others at the table as the food. The vultures Walsh had invited to dine today knew the scenes Alex had caused earlier in the week and they wanted revenge. And Mark, the one person who was nominally there to protect Alex, would only be hurting the child later if he said anything to break up Walsh’s fun.

Thankfully for them both, the first round of bullying the kid seemed to have sated most of the birds of prey in their group. During Alex’s absence the group had found new topics of conversation. Now none of the guests were paying Alex much attention. Alex spoke perhaps nine words through dessert – all polite responses to trivial questions.

After dessert, the guests lingered around the table and talked as a waiter unobtrusively removed the food. Mark waited with a racing heart for everyone to leave. He needed to see if Alex was ok.

“David, do you let your son drink?” Ryan asked.

“No.” Mark responded without thinking. Alex had already mentioned that he didn’t drink; that was enough reason to say no.

“Don’t encourage the habit for a young delinquent,” Rose admonished.

“Give him a taste,” Ryan suggested. “He’s been good tonight.”

“He’s not a dog, Darrah,” Esther said. 

Alex looked exhausted. Mark bit his tongue and watched as Ryan poured more whisky than Mark would give an alcoholic into a glass and gave it to the kid. “Drink it all. It’ll help you sleep.”

The boy grimaced at the taste, but he did as he was told. Rose and Liam exchanged an amused glance and Mark gritted his teeth. He wanted the kid anywhere but here.

“If he doesn’t like it, I’ve done you a favor,” Ryan told Mark. “He won’t drink again anytime soon.”

There were some more small conversations, and then the guests said their goodbyes. Ryan patted Alex on the face twice as he left, and Mark watched the boy struggle to keep a neutral expression. And then it was just Walsh, Gregorovich, Mark, and Alex alone in the foyer.

“I think you were right to invite yourself to stay for a while, Alex,” Walsh remarked. “I enjoyed tonight more than I thought I would.” He looked at Mark. “You enjoyed yourself, I hope?”

Mark looked at Alex and then back at Walsh. “The food was delicious.”

Walsh smiled. “Yes.” He glanced at his Gregorovich. “Well, I suppose I will see them both soon. I’m off to bed for the night. Put them away for now, will you?”

The guard who Mark had seen for a moment earlier in the evening was back when they returned to the room. The guard was reading a book titled The Constant Gardener and sitting in a chair outside the door. He barely looked up at them as they entered.

Finally, the two were alone.

“Are you hurt?” Mark asked the moment the door closed. “What happened? What did Gregorovich do to you?”

“Nothing happened,” the boy said quietly. “Can we talk later? I’m ready to sleep. You can have the bed.”

No, they couldn’t talk later. Mark felt for the kid, but he could sleep when Mark was sure he hadn’t been hurt. “We need to talk now. And you need to tell me what happened.”

Alex sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing happened, really. I was in Walsh’s surveillance room while you were in the gardens. I think I have a good idea of their camera layout now. He has cameras all over the place, but there are blind spots. I just need a bit of time to think.”

A hired killer had taken Alex away from a party to show him a surveillance room? That made no sense.

A horrible idea occurred to Mark, and he promptly rejected it. Alex didn’t look …well, however one looked after that sort of abuse.

Then again, Alex had managed surprisingly well right after his ‘fun movie session’, as Walsh had dubbed it.

Mark reached for the tone of his voice he’d last heard his dad use almost two decades ago – a tone that brokered no argument. “You need to tell me the truth. Now. What happened?”

“I’m fine,” the child said.

Yeah, sure. Same as the last dozen times the kid had said that same line. “That isn’t what I asked.”

“No, but you’re worried I got hurt. I didn’t. All we did was take a break in the surveillance room. We came back when the cameras showed that the dessert was ready.”

“You took a break.” Mark let them both hear the disbelief clear in his in voice. Like the kid had just decided to take a pleasant stroll in the park with a hired killer.

Alex didn’t change his story. “Yeah.”

“And Gregorovich said, what? Here, relax a minute while looking at everything in the mansion we don’t want you to see?”

The child returned Mark’s stare. “Not the second part.”

There was no possible way this was true. Not unless the man was hoping Alex tried to make a half-assed escape attempt and it led to getting rid of the spies. Perhaps that’s what this was about – the man wanted to hurt them but needed permission from his boss.

But Walsh hardly seemed like the sort of man who would need an excuse to allow his prisoners to be hurt.

The evidence suggested that Mark’s first suspicion had been correct, and Gregorovich had taken advantage of the party to bring Alex somewhere he could torment where no one else could see. And now Alex was putting on a brave face and hiding behind a ridiculous lie.

“You need to tell me if you’re hurt,” Mark tried again.

“Fine,” Alex agreed. “I’m _fine_.”

The assassin who had threatened them casually hours ago had just taken Alex out of the room for a meditative break. Right. And yet…Mark thought back to what he’d seen last night. There had been a split second where Alex and Gregorovich had stood in the doorway of their prison and Mark had sworn the man looked worried.

“Alright, you needed a break,” Mark said. “Dinner was brutal. I was there. Anyone would have wanted out of your position. That doesn’t explain why he gave you one.”

Alex shrugged.

Mark had some ideas. Unfortunately for them both, Gregorovich’s concern being real was not a top possibility. “Did you consider that he just wanted to keep an eye on you?”

“Yes.”

Alex could have been agreeing with Mark’s idea.

Somehow, Mark didn’t think he was.

Mark didn’t want to crush the kid’s viewpoint, but he also couldn’t allow the villains of the moment to blindsight Alex. “Look, he’s trying to leave you compliant. He’s making himself seem kinder than Walsh so you depend on him for mercy, and then when you don’t try anything else he kills you on command.”

An emotion close to frustration crossed Alex’s face. “Yassen doesn’t think he’ll convince me he’s _kind_.”

Something registered with Mark that should have registered a moment ago— Yassen. “Are you on a first name basis with hired killers now? Becoming best chums with Gregorovich?”

The child’s tone was suddenly much tenser. “No.”

Mark recognized he was close to taking it too far. But he couldn’t stop now– he needed to save them both. He’d been patient earlier in the day. He’d given breaks, made sure the child wasn’t starving, and had asked less personal questions than several he’d considered. (Admittedly, where is your family was personal, but that one might be necessary for getting them out of here. And it still somehow seemed less personal than ‘Have you ever killed anyone?’, ludicrous though that last idea seemed.)

At the end of the day Alex was still a child. He needed to work with adults around him for help. And if Alex wasn’t going to cooperate when Mark was giving him every opportunity, Mark would have to take away the opportunities to not cooperate. He’d keep the boy up all night if needed. Children needed sleep, yes - but spies could sleep when they were dead, and Mark had dark suspicions that without the information Alex knew, they would both have plenty of time for sleep soon.

“You said he worked for SCORPIA,” Mark said. Alex didn’t recognize the danger the man was, but Mark did. And it was time to impress that upon him.

“Yes.”

“Do you know anything about SCORPIA?”

“Yes.”

Alex had retreated to monosyllabic answers with Walsh earlier today as well. At the time, it had seemed a survival instinct. Now Alex’s short replies were starting to remind Mark of himself as insolent teenager. Mark could now see why his mum had threatened to sleep in her car rather than deal with one more day of Mark at his roughest.

“Well, what do you know?” Mark demanded. “Because I assure you, whatever you’ve heard about SCORPIA isn’t evil enough. They earned a living through terrorism, human trafficking, torture, kidnapping, and worse. They would kill your entire family without blinking an eye.”

“But they don’t exist anymore.”

That was true, to the best of Mark’s knowledge. At least not in the capacity they’d existed in a year ago. Why a child knew that, Mark didn’t want to know. “No. But whatever he did with them doesn’t go away, and it doesn’t change who he is. He’s working for Walsh now but he’s still a killer. You don’t need to have anything to do with him.”

It was still impossible to read Alex. Mark took a second to calm himself. He tried a few meditation breaths from his last couple’s yoga class “Kid, you need to let me be the one to deal with Walsh and Gregorovich,” Mark tried. Let the adult be the adult. MI6 should never have put the kid in these situations.

“That’s going well.”

 _Better than when you got me stabbed._ “I’ve been trained for this.” _And you haven’t_ , Mark left unsaid.

“And I’ve done this before. Except the last few times crazy people held me prisoner, I didn’t have to deal with rescuing someone else.”

Which, ignoring the low level of attitude the child was giving him, brought them back to earlier. “If you told me what you’d done on your last missions, maybe I’d have some idea on how to help us both now.”

“I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act.”

Fuck calming breaths; Mark could slap the kid. “Yes, obviously. I mean, assuming you’re telling the truth about madmen holding you hostage, what did you do to escape? Cry until they let you go out of pity? Call your parents and negotiate a ransom?”

“Do you want me to try crying?” Mark was positive the kid’s empty tone was sarcasm. Well, he could return the favor.

“Why not? Maybe crying would work with your friend _Yassen_ if he’s so concerned with how you’re doing. Maybe you don’t even need to cry – just look tired or sad like tonight when he _gave you a break_.”

Alex stared at him, blank. “Sure. That didn’t work the last time I was being dragged to my death while he watched, or when he put me in the middle of a bullfight, or Walsh told him to record me getting hurt _by him_. He didn’t really seem too concerned about me this morning either. But I’m sure that’s completely changed because of twenty minutes in the past two hours.”

Did he just say he’d fought a bull? How the hell did Mark respond to that? This kid either had the most convoluted life at fifteen since Alexander the Great or he had an imagination to rival Stephen King’s, and the latter didn’t explain why MI6 had sent him here.

Mark took one more deep breath and let it out slowly. Fine. Gregorovich had made Alex face off against a bull. Sure. That was a ridiculous story, but at least Alex was talking about his life. It was half nonsense, but maybe Mark could figure out the truth if he was persistent. “Why would he make you fight a bull?”

Alex might have been a mind reader. His jaw seemed to tense, as if he recognized he’d given away information he didn’t want Mark to know. “You’re free to ask him.”

“You don’t know?”

“Does it matter? It’s over now.”

Mark took a few minutes to choose his words. Alex had been on the verge of apathy for the last few conversations they’d had where the boy had even bothered to answer Mark’s questions. This might be his only opportunity tonight to get new information on their captors.

And they might not have much more time together to speak. Mark needed know the truth about how the two knew each other, and he needed it now.

“It matters,” Mark said. “Assassins, hit men, whatever you want to call people who kill others for money – they don’t leave people alive without a reason. However you both met each other, he decided not to kill you. He must have had justification to let you go. And now you’re saying you’ve met each other multiple times. But you’re here with me now, not dead. I need to know how to use this to our advantage.”

The boy took two steps back until he could lean against the back wall of the room, and then he slid to a seat on the floor. “I’m going to sleep,” he said. His face was stony.

“Soon,” Mark promised. “But I need you to work with me first. Help me so I can help us both get out here.”

The boy didn’t respond. His expression said he wasn’t planning to respond either, at least not anytime soon. Mark watched as Alex reached for the sheet that had been left on the floor where Alex had slept last night.

Mark took a seat where he was, in the middle of the room.

One way to coax information from someone reluctant to talk was to offer options. Mark thought over the information he had available. “Did your family pay him off?” Mark offered. And, more importantly, could they do it again?

Alex was silent.

“Did someone rescue you?” This option wasn’t as appealing – it implied it had been pure luck that Alex had survived previous encounters with the assassin. It was also one of the more viable possibilities.

Alex wrapped the sheet around himself and closed his eyes.

Mark continued his questioning. ““Did he leave you alive on purpose?”

He couldn’t let the teenager sleep yet. This was important. Mark spoke his next words as gently as you could manage. “I need you to talk to me. Answer my questions and you can go to sleep.”

 _Don’t answer my questions, and you can’t._ Mark left that part unspoken. Alex would probably be angry. He’d be angry in his position– the kid had been ambushed from all sides since he’d woken that morning. Mark wasn’t guiltless in that process. And now Mark, the person who was supposed to be on Alex’s side, was threatening the one time the child seemed to have a moment of peace.

Hell, Mark wouldn’t even take it personally if Alex wanted to punch him. He’d even let the kid if Alex would just work with him. Whatever it took.

The boy’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t open his eyes.

It didn’t matter. Mark suspected Alex wouldn’t be able to go to sleep with questions coming his way. If the boy did start to drift off, Mark would wake him up.

The kid was tough; Mark was patient. He had once, before Brenda but after the intrigue of different cities every few weeks had disappeared, spent two years living undercover on the continent for only the chance to turn an informant.

It took time. Mark repeated his questions every few minutes to no visible reaction. Two or three times he had to shake Alex awake, gently, with his good hand. Although Alex didn’t react beyond visibly tensing, clenching his fists, and trying to sleep again, Mark knew without a doubt that he wasn’t the boy’s favorite person.

He wished he could have met Alex someplace else. The child might have liked Mark in other circumstances.

Now was not the time for these regrets. He needed answers.

The kid was tough. But every factor was on Mark’s side. The boy was exhausted from one of the worst evenings Mark had ever experienced. They had all night. And Alex was only fifteen.

The boy broke his silence, finally, after Mark returned from a trip to the restroom. Maybe the minute he’d had alone in quiet was all he had needed to consider his options.

“If I answer one of your questions, will you leave me alone?” Alex asked quietly.

More than one answer would be useful. One answer was also more than he had to work on currently. “I can narrow it down to two.”

One of the boy’s fists tightened momentarily. “After that we’re done talking.”

“Deal,” Mark agreed before the boy could back out. He would need to be careful with his second question, but his first he’d known for a while. Maybe Alex wasn’t close to his parents, but the boy had never denied that his family could get them out of this situation. “Did your family pay him off?”

“No.”

 _Fuck._ He’d known this was a possibility, but some part of Mark had latched onto the idea and been ready to work with it. If Alex had survived someone who was motivated by money before, the rational reason was that his opponent had been paid off.

Admittedly this all depended on if Alex was telling the truth. But at this point, why lie? Whatever relationship Alex had with his family, it couldn’t be bad enough to be worth dying in this prison just to avoid asking for their help. Which meant his family couldn’t help them.

Mark reflected on the questions he’d already asked, and the information Alex had already given. Gregorovich and Alex had met before – more than once. Alex had mentioned ‘bosses’ plural the other day at the card table. There were a lot of possibilities Mark could pursue, but the answers to most would only lead to other questions. His mind flashed back to the last bit of information Alex had willingly given him before shutting down. If he pursued one of those leads, perhaps Alex would even expand on it.

“Do you know why he made you fight a bull?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Mark prompted.

The boy laughed hollowly. “I can tell you about it, but it won’t help.”

“Anything can help.”

The dead-eyed stare Alex responded with seemed to say that sure, Mark was free to believe that.

“Anything,” Mark stressed. “And then I’ll leave you alone.”

The boy was quiet.

Mark waited. He’d given his threat earlier – talk, or don’t sleep. Now it was time to listen and let Alex make the smart decision.

Eventually, Alex did.

“I saw him in the south of France a year ago. He was there to kill someone. Someone I knew. After I realized that, I thought I needed to do something about it. I’d seen his yacht earlier in the day. It was still there when I went looking for it. There was only one person in my way, so I knocked him out snuck on board.” Alex stopped for a minute, and Mark was getting ready to ask what happened next when the child continued.

“There was a gun was on the table, and no one was around to stop me, so I picked it up.”

Mark’s heart sank. He suddenly had the idea that Alex might, perhaps, know what he was saying when had mentioned this story wouldn’t help them.

“He was lying down when I found him. But I couldn’t pull the trigger, and a member of his crew grabbed me. They talked about what they were going to do with me. He said I’d given him a chance, so he’d give me one. Then he made me dress as a novillero and made me walk into a bullring with a live bull. He left before he saw if I survived.”

Mark stared.

There was a resigned twitch in the corner of Alex’s mouth. “It’s not a story you can use to get us out of here.”

The same way a part of Mark had expected that Alex’s family was rich enough to bail him out of trouble, Mark had expected the boy to reveal he’d been, if not openly lying about the bullfight, at least exaggerating.

Alex didn’t sound like he was doing either.

Did MI6 send him to kill Gregorovich, knowing all the while he would probably die?

After this week Mark wouldn’t even be surprised.

The kid was _fifteen._

In front of him, Alex had laid down, his face turned to the wall.

Mark watched the boy fall asleep, wishing he’d let him rest earlier. He could maybe use the story he’d been told to their advantage, but he couldn’t think of how.

How had a child gotten tangled up in this?

\--

Yassen was worried.

He had been concerned from the moment he’d spotted Alex at the party, but he had hoped the boy would be gone before Yassen would need to become involved. And then Alex had made a public scene. At that point Yassen had let go of any hope of letting Alex just leave, but he had still thought things would avoid becoming desperate.

Alex had interfered with Yassen’s work before. The first time it had led to a termination of SCOPRIA’s contract, and the second time Yassen had nearly died.

In a move that Yassen now realized to be a mistake, he’d sent Alex to SCORPIA. From what Yassen had heard after he’d rejoined the world, a sniper had shot the child outside of MI6’s headquarters. Months later, SCORPIA was disbanded.

Plans didn’t work around Alex Rider.

Unlike Yassen’s previous employers, Conan Walsh didn’t have plans. He had investments.

Investments that did not include keeping two MI6 agents hostage for a long period of time.

Yassen glanced at the security monitors, looking through the familiar rooms of Walsh’s home.

He couldn’t forget his first meeting with the boy – they had talked to the other across Sayle’s corpse atop a skyscraper in London. He couldn’t forget Alex’s words either. He had accepted that it was possible they would meet again, and it hadn’t come as a surprise to find his own gun pointed at his head by that same child months later. That boy had been determined to fight for his life and the lives of those he cared about, even when death seemed a certainty. John Rider had impressed Yassen in his youth; Alex Rider had impressed Yassen in his mid-thirties.

Yassen had avoided SCORPIA’s disintegrating network of businesses as best he could for the past six months. He had done his best to keep the fact that he was alive far from the ears of those who knew who he was. All the same, he had not been completely removed from the whispered stories. Some of them were doubtless exaggerations – the rumors he’d heard about the hotel in space came to mind – and others he didn’t doubt for a moment.

MI6 had been left John Rider’s orphan the moment Yassen had killed Ian Rider. And they had made the best of the circumstances. The child who had aimed a gun at Yassen’s head had also hesitated to pull the trigger. Somehow, Yassen rather thought that if France were repeated, he would be dead, or Alex never would have confronted him at all. The child Yassen had met in London wasn’t gone, but he also wasn’t the same. The events of the past year and half had changed him.

_I tried to go back to school._

Yassen had thought, with how willingly Alex had chased after him in the south of France, that Alex had agreed to be MI6’s child spy. MI6 would have manipulated the child of course. And Ian Rider had certainly not taken the fate of his brother and his wife as discouragement from working with MI6. Alex had doubtless been raised with the skills that led to MI6 choosing him. Without someone to tell them no, Alex was their model child spy. And later, perhaps, just their model spy. Assuming he survived his childhood.

Except Alex hadn’t signed up for this. That new information changed things.

It explained Alex’s exhaustion. And why a child with a life in London had followed a dying man’s words to chase down and join – if only for a month – a criminal organization.

Again, Yassen’s gaze drifted across the monitors, looking for any sign of movement.

There were none, as expected. He was looking only at the still scenery of a sleeping mansion, looking only at the monitors that showed how difficult it would be to leave the building without being spotted, if someone clever was paying attention.

Yassen had talked to Walsh that morning and suggested that the older agent would be unnecessary after the night’s dinner. It had become apparent to Yassen that Mark Corwynne was good for one thing only – keeping Alex compliant.

Yassen should have let the older agent die from blood loss. The older agent would be no good in a fight, and Alex wouldn’t risk his partner’s life. Which left outside intervention to rescue Alex. MI6’s history of helpful interventions was…shaky…at best. Which left Yassen as the possible outside intervention.

The instant Yassen did anything obvious to free to the boy his job would be gone. Possibly his life as well.

It was better for Yassen if he did his job for now. Walsh was still enjoying having two captives, regardless of what he was telling them. Alex was at least not in danger tonight. Yassen could change his mind later if needed. In the meantime, if threatening the older agent kept Alex out of trouble, he would do it. He would ignore the worry that keeping Alex compliant would prevent the escape Yassen hoped for.

Yassen had options, yes. There were always options.

The options did not always bring so many challenges.

Killing Walsh would present problems. It was expensive to be dead. Walsh’s employment had been steady for seven months now. There was none of Cray’s irrational paranoia or Sayle’s unpleasant attitude making the job unpleasant. Even more, Walsh was generous with his employees both in compensation and in benefits such as keeping Yassen’s survival hidden. So long as Walsh’s notions of decorum were entertained, the man was one of the more agreeable employers Yassen had dealt with.

Killing the older agent would present problems. Walsh had decided the two spies were inextricably linked after Alex chose to take the consequences of Walsh’s game himself. Hurting two people at once was undeniably entertaining Walsh more than his games his previous guest. Walsh was a good employer, but he had limits. Taking one of his toys out of the game without a reason would cross a line. And then there were the problems of Alex’s perception of Yassen if Yassen took out his partner. Not that Yassen had ever had the chance to earn the boy’s favor. Shooting Ian Rider had presented its own set of challenges.

Killing Alex was not an option.

Then, of course, there was the path they were currently on. The older agent would behave because he couldn’t stand to see a child hurt in front of him. Alex would behave because someone else would suffer if he did not. And Walsh would keep the spies until he wasn’t amused anymore, and then would have them both shot. Yassen couldn’t allow that to happen.

Once again, Alex Rider’s presence was interfering with his employment.

For the first time, Alex did not seem determined to fight back regardless of the consequences.

Yassen was worried.


	7. Chapter 7

Alex woke feeling sore, undoubtedly a consequence of spending two nights in a row sleeping on the floor.

The room smelled like coffee. Alex rolled onto his side to see the source.

Mark caught his gaze and offered a pained smile. “Morning, kid. Breakfast is here.”

There was a tray with a cup of coffee, silverware, and a plate with an omelet on it in the middle of the room next to Mark. There was another plate and mug, both empty, stacked next to the older agent.

Alex pulled himself up and walked to the middle of the room to sit and eat. The food must have come earlier, because both the omelet and coffee were lukewarm at best. Alex grimaced at the coffee’s temperature, and Mark made a face in a sympathetic reaction.

“Sorry,” Mark said. “I thought you might want to sleep.”

Alex kept himself from responding acerbically. They both knew Alex would have slept a lot longer if Mark hadn’t kept him up half the night for his pointless interrogation. The man meant well, Alex reminded himself.

“And I’m sorry for last night,” Mark said. “I should have let you sleep.”

Alex took another bite of his food without response. Yes, Mark should have.

The older agent studied him for a minute. “I wish I didn’t have to ask these questions, I really do. You need to understand, though, you’re telling me you’ve been in these situations before but you’re still alive. That means I need to figure out how you survived, so we can do it again.”

 _Luck._ And luck always ran out.

Not that Alex had given up on escaping this situation. But it might help if Mark thought he had, so that he’d leave Alex alone to think. Last night’s peek into the surveillance footage had to hold the secret to getting out, but it was hard to run through possible paths to leave undetected during a conversation or interrogation.

Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I know some of my questions are things you don’t want to answer. But I promise they will help.”

Somehow, Alex rather doubted it.

“What do you say, Alex? Could you answer another set of questions?”

The coffee was too cold to taste good, but Alex took another sip to have an excuse to escape the question without being completely rude.

Mark nodded. Alex got the sense that his lack of a response was expected, but that the man was planning to continue anyway. So much for hoping that last night had been the end of the questions. Apparently, it wasn’t enough to tell someone once that answers wouldn’t help.

“Did MI6 tell you anything about Gregorovich before they sent you to kill him?”

Well, that was certainly a wrong idea. Alex almost expected that Mrs. Jones was at a point where she would hand him a gun and tell him to kill someone in cold blood. But he couldn’t blame her or Blunt for raising a gun to Yassen’s head that night in France.

Not that Alex owed Mark an explanation of the truth.

Mark seemed to accept that Alex wasn’t going to answer that question. He moved onto the next question. How long had he been awake, thinking of these questions?

“Did your parents sign you up for this?”

“No.” Alex didn’t have to think. He also hadn’t meant to answer, but the word had slipped out before he’d realized that he’d done it.

And then there was another reminder that Mark was an MI6 agent, not an idiot: “Did your uncle?”

“No!” Alex repeated. Which wasn’t, actually, something he could positively answer with that amount of confidence.

The man hesitated for a moment. Clearly, he’d registered that he’d struck a nerve. Alex decided it was time to take charge before this turned into a repeat of how miserable yesterday had been.

“Listen,” Alex said. “It doesn’t matter how I was recruited into MI6. Stop asking. I’ve been in this situation before, and I’ve always escaped by myself or with help from other agents, but it always depended on one thing: luck. Your questions aren’t going to help because each time is different. One time I didn’t even escape – the madman of the hour just killed himself instead of me. But I don’t think Walsh is planning on offing himself, so that option’s out. If I’m going to be helpful, I need time to think. Which means I need you to s _top asking questions._ Can we just sit here quietly and pretend something awful isn’t about to happen?”

“How did you escape?” Mark asked reflexively.

Alex clenched his hands, then loosened his fists. _Relax._ “Like I said, it’s been different every time. Unless you see guard dogs or a helpful CIA agent anywhere around here, I’m out of ideas for now.”

Mark started to ask a follow up question, and Alex interrupted before the words formulated.

“ _Stop.”_

Whatever conviction had been in Alex’s tone, it was enough. Mark stopped. He kept looking at Alex as he finished his breakfast, but he was quiet.

“You know, I wasn’t close to my parents,” Mark said as Alex stacked all the empty dishes on the tray.

“Sorry,” Alex said without much thought.

“You don’t have to be. I’m just saying, well, I’m thinking aloud, if we get out of this, I want you to know there are options. You don’t have to just depend on people who aren’t helping you to help get you away from MI6. For all I know your parents are great, but you’re here so I’m thinking they may not be. There are other people.”

Alex didn’t miss that Mark had said ‘if’ they got out of this.

“Great,” Alex responded. If some sarcasm slipped into his tone, he wasn’t responsible. “Thanks for the advice. I hadn’t realized it was as easy as talking to other adults, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

It was hard to read the older agent. “I mean it,” Mark said quietly. “If you need help, we can find people. I can help.”

Alex took a few minutes to decide how to respond. Mark really did mean well. It wouldn’t work, of course, not while MI6 could lock Jack or Alex in a safehouse and call it a matter of national security.

The words were still a nice gesture.

“Thanks,” Alex responded, eventually.

\---

Alex had changed back into the grey hoodie and was staring out the window when he heard the door open.

“We’re done eating,” Mark said behind him. Alex turned to see Yassen ignore the tray of food.

“My employer wants to see you both. He gave you the choice to see him separately or together.”

Mark hesitated.

“Together,” Alex said. There was no advantage he could think of to talking to Walsh separately. If Walsh let information slip to Mark, Alex couldn’t trust that Mark would tell him that information. If there was another twisted game they were going to be forced to play, it was better if Alex was present and could stop Mark from choosing to hurt himself worse.

Yassen accepted that answer easily. “Follow me.”

Walsh’s office was only around the corner, so Alex wasn’t sure they gained much knowledge of the layout of the mansion by walking there. What Alex was sure of was that Walsh’s office was not included in the part of the mansion that was being live streamed to the surveillance room. Maybe megalomaniacs tended to prefer their privacy.

Walsh’s office was nearly as large as the small library had been. Two walls – one on either side of the room – were occupied by walnut bookshelves filled with both books that appeared to mainly relate to Ireland in some way or another and with thick binders. Beige damask wallpaper covered the walls, and a heavy wooden desk was in the center of the room. Walsh was sitting behind his desk, looking down at an envelope in his hands.

There were two wooden chairs in front of the desk, and Alex assumed that was where they would be sitting. Mark must have made the same assumption because he led the way and took a seat. Alex took the other seat. Yassen stood behind and between their chairs, close enough that Alex thought the assassin could immediately grab either Alex or Mark if they tried anything.

Of course, with the gun he doubtless had, grabbing them wouldn’t be necessary.

But there was still Walsh’s poker game on Friday, and Alex and Mark were still apparently attending. After that...Alex wasn’t sure. Nothing good.

Walsh looked up from the envelope.

“Good morning,” he greeted perfunctorily.

“Morning,” Alex replied unenthusiastically. Beside him, Mark gave a greeting as well.

“Did you sleep well?”

The question was clearly meant for Mark, so Alex stayed quiet. “Yes,” Mark said.

“Very good.” Walsh examined them. “I don’t know if you know this, but I had a guest here before both of you. He didn’t stay long, but long enough for us to have a few conversations. It’s the last conversation we had that I’m thinking of today. You see, my guest was a family man.”

And Alex had told Walsh Mark’s last name, and Mark, unlike Alex, still had a living family.

Fuck.

Walsh continued, “He knew at the end that he wasn’t going anywhere. He accepted that I was going to have him killed. But he asked me if he could write a letter that I could send to his family, and I said yes.”

Alex looked at the envelope in Walsh’s hands.

“Yes,” Walsh admitted. “You’ve both realized what this is, I think. Of course, I have no intention to send this letter out right now. It could be a code. I don’t think it is, but it could be. But perhaps one day, after I’ve examined it a few more times, I will send it to his family.”

It was suddenly incredibly clear to Alex what they were here to do.

Mark realized it too. “You want us to write letters?”

“Want is a strong word,” Walsh dismissed. “I’m offering you the chance to write a letter. If you want. Write in a code and I’ll hurt you, and even if you don’t there’s a strong possibility I’ll keep it for my records. But it is your last chance to possibly say your goodbyes. I would think about it, at least.”

“It’s a kind offer,” Alex said. “But no thank you.”

“Don’t say yes or no,” Walsh said. He opened a desk drawer and took out two pieces of stationary and slid one across his desk to Alex and one to Mark. Then he handed a pen to each of them, both expensive models. “You have an hour to sit here and think. No longer. Anything you write down I’ll consider, and if it’s harmless enough I’ll have it brought to another country and mailed to your family. Mark, you’ve no need to provide an address. I’ve found your lovely bird already.”

Mark stiffened.

 _I didn’t know,_ Alex reminded himself. He hadn’t known he would put others at risk when he told Walsh Mark’s real name.

Didn’t think was more like it. Didn’t think that other agents had families who could be hurt if their identities were uncovered.

Walsh leaned down to open a lower drawer behind his desk. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and then a stack of 4 glasses. He unstacked the glasses and filled two of them a moderate amount. He pushed one over to Alex and kept the other for himself. He then filled a third glass with twice the amount of the previous two glasses and put it in front of Mark.

“I’m not going to force anyone to drink, but it might help.” Walsh smiled congenially and took a small sip from his own glass. Neither Alex nor Mark reached for theirs. Walsh took in their silent stares and then took a book from the corner of his desk and opened it. He began to read, although Alex suspected it was a facsimile of reading while he reveled in their – but especially Mark’s – unease.

An ornate grandfather clock on the wall behind Walsh told Alex that only twenty minutes had passed in silence before Walsh closed his book, six pages later, and turned to them. Neither of the spies had touched their drinks or their papers.

“Cheers,” Walsh said, and he raised his own glass. Alex looked to Mark. The older agent raised his glass and then both, ignoring Alex, took a drink. “I’ve changed my mind. You’re going to write a letter. Both of you. You can make it short if you’d like. You still have most of an hour left, so use your time wisely”

Mark took another drink, and then another. And then he picked up the pen and began to write slow, halting letters. Alex wondered how much of the slow pace was because Mark was writing with his nondominant hand and how much was because he didn’t know what to say.

Despite the only movement in the room being Mark’s pained writing, Alex tried not to watch him. A letter to a loved one you thought you might never see again was a private moment, as much as Walsh was dragging it out into a group affair for his own twisted amusement. Hopefully, Mark didn’t pour his soul into the letter. Alex suspected it would never get to Mark’s girlfriend.

Walsh poured himself another two fingers of whisky. He sipped it slowly while catching Alex’s eyes. The man made a mocking tssking sound. “Tik tok, Alex. Time is running out. What do you want to say to your dear sweet mum?”

“I don’t have anything to say,” Alex said. _Or anyone to say it to._

“Think of something. I’ll be reading it later. See if you can make me sad that you won’t be joining them again.”

Well if Walsh would be reading it later…

Alex had only written three words on the page, two of them rude, when Yassen put a hand on his shoulder.

“Stop,” Yassen warned.

Walsh laughed. “Something unkind, was it? I applaud your imagination, Alex, but think of if I’d taken it the wrong way. Do you want to be responsible for _another_ injury?”

“I didn’t say I was writing to you.”

“Weren’t you?” Walsh questioned. “Although with the amount your parents seem to allow you to get away with, maybe you weren’t. My father died when I was young, but even at twelve I knew if I disrespected him, I wouldn’t be having a pleasant time. Your parents seemed not to have instilled that same fear of your elders into you.”

Alex crumpled up the paper and dropped it back on the desk. Walsh offered him another blank paper.

“Think of all the things you could say. Goodbye, how much your family means to you. You could give them advice, such as not sending any brothers or sisters you have into the service as well. Surely you have something to tell your dear family.”

“No,” Alex said.

“Make it up then,” Walsh dismissed. “I don’t know where to send your letter yet, so feel free to provide an address if you want as well.”

With Yassen behind him watching what he wrote, Alex didn’t need any more of a scene. He addressed the letter ‘dear parents’, threw together a few lines about how much he loved them and wished them a happy life, and signed it Alex.

“Is it better?” Walsh asked Yassen when Alex had put his pen down. Alex didn’t look behind him, but Yassen must have nodded because Walsh appeared appeased.

“Good, good,” Walsh said. “Mark, how’s your letter to dear Brenda going?”

“Fine,” Mark said tersely.

That wasn’t good. Mark had been playing along with Walsh’s games the entire time they’d been here, including mollifying the man when Alex had been ‘too smart’ for the madman. Now he sounded resistant.

Every time Walsh smiled Alex remembered just how little power he and Mark had while they were in this mansion. And Walsh was beaming like the Cheshire Cat right now.

“Another drink?’ Walsh offered.

With trepidation, Alex realized how much Mark had drunk.

“That can’t be good with your medication,” Alex said, hoping Mark would take that as enough of a warning to stop.

“Nonsense,” Walsh said. And he poured another copious amount of liquor for the older agent. “You have about 15 minutes left, make them count. Really pour your soul into it, is my advice. I’m not feeling much like giving you another chance. Alex, you don’t think your family will regret how short your goodbyes are?”

“I think the letter probably won’t reach them anyway.”

Walsh shrugged. “You never know. It will help if you write the address down.”

“Sorry, I don’t remember.”

Alex could somewhat remember the cemetery address where Ian was buried, but he had no intention to let Walsh search the address out and put two and two together.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Walsh said.

Alex looked at Mark as a distraction from the conversation. Thankfully, Mark hadn’t completely finished his second drink, but as Alex looked at Mark, he realized that it probably wasn’t necessary. Mark was shaking, and his eyes were red. He wasn’t crying, but just barely.

“Oh, one thing,” Walsh said, as if he’d just thought of it. Maybe he had. “Somewhere in the letter, make sure you tell whoever you’re writing to that you failed them. If that word isn’t in there, I’ll burn your letter while you watch.”

Alex didn’t intend to add anything to his letter, let alone a taunt from Walsh about being caught in the middle of a mission. He didn’t look at Mark, but he had the feeling Mark was writing it now just to make sure the letter had even a chance to get to his girlfriend.

“Alex,” Yassen said.

_Go to hell._

Alex picked up the pen and scrawled a quick apology at the bottom of his letter.

“We have a few minutes left, but I think I’m done,” Walsh said. He held up his glass to the light streaming in from the window, and Alex saw it was nearly empty again. Walsh finished his drink quickly and then put it aside. “Letters and pens on the table, let’s go. Write your name first, Mark.”

Mark had stopped writing in the middle of a sentence, and he moved his pen down the paper to write his name. There were teardrops on the paper now. Alex turned to glare at Walsh, hard.

“Take a drink, Alex,” Walsh advised. “It will help.”

No, it wouldn’t. Being home would help.

“Are we done?” Alex asked.

Mark put down his pen and Walsh collected both pens to put back in his desk. “I’ll see you both later when I’m in the mood. Perhaps we’ll do a reading of your letters.”

Alex got up and walked to the door without another word.

Alex left Mark alone after they returned to the room. He wasn’t sure what to say. Mind games were fine when you didn’t really have any stake in the outcome – even if Alex had written a longer letter than three sentences to his family, who would be there to read it? But Mark had someone. He’d never even told Alex his girlfriend’s name himself, but he had talked about her for what had felt like hours early on during their time as Walsh’s ‘guests’. Given the choice to write a note to someone who loved you, saying goodbye and that you’d failed them, or to not write a note and have that person never know what you wanted to say, Alex honestly had no idea which choice he would go with. It just wasn’t a real choice he’d had to make.

Occasionally Alex would glance at Mark and be reminded that the best response was probably to leave him alone. Mark alternated between burying his head in his good hand and staring at the floor. When his face was uncovered, his expression kept changing.

Yassen came with sandwiches and bottles of water for lunch a few minutes after Alex had relocated to the bed. The assassin left the food on the ground near the door. “Do either of you need anything?”

“Just the answer to my question. Are you having fun fetching everything we need?” Mark asked.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mark had to be feeling a lot of things, but irritating Yassen wasn’t going to help.

The exasperation Alex felt must have shown, because Yassen raised an eyebrow and nodded at Alex. “You should listen to the child.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Yes,” Yassen agreed.

“Oh, good,” Mark said. He sounded on the edge of drunk. “You and your boss can torment us, but you don’t like when we protest? What tough men you are.”

“Anything else?” Yassen asked impatiently.

“No,” Alex said, hoping to end this now. Yassen turned to leave.

“You’re going to let this kid get killed just because MI6 sent him to kill you?” Mark asked in a brash tone, clearly not on the same page as Alex.

Alex froze.

He took back every single time he had thought the older agent clever. There was something _deeply_ daft about telling someone who made their living killing people that you knew they had let someone try to kill them and then survive.

Which really made Alex the fool. Mark would never have known if Alex had followed Yassen’s advice – don’t volunteer information. Mark had only gotten to the point where he could threaten Alex for more information last night because Alex’s earlier words had implied there was more to know.

Yassen stopped. He turned to consider Alex, but he addressed his words at Mark. “Is that what he told you?”

“He said enough to figure out the rest.”

Yassen shifted his attention from Alex to Mark once again. “Oh?”

“He mentioned he tried to kill you,” the agent said.

“Yes,” Yassen said. There was a moment of silence. “MI6 can be blamed for many situations. Alex’s failed attempt on my life was not one of them.”

Mark balked. “A child tried to kill you on his own? I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you want.” Yassen took another step towards the door.

“Stop,” Mark said. “You didn’t answer my question. You’re going to let Alex be killed just for that?”

“I will let MI6 suffer the consequences of their actions.”

“What about the consequences for you? What if I talk to your boss about you knowing the kid?”

“I would advise you not to bring that up.”

Alex wasn’t sure what nonverbal signs Mark was listening to that told him continuing was a good idea. Alex was one hundred percent positive that the assassin’s patience was running out.

“What shouldn’t I bring up with your boss? How well you two know each other, or that you spent last night hiding Alex away so no one could bother him?” Mark scoffed. “Afraid you’re going to find yourself playing his games as well?”

“You are free to tell my employer anything that you think would help your case.” Now Alex could hear how dangerously quiet Yassen’s voice was.

“I will.”

“Let’s assume you tell him that,” Yassen agreed. “My employer, perhaps, believes I have some concern for Alex. He tells me to do things that will hurt Alex, so he can enjoy the reaction. What comes after that?”

Alex had a strong idea that _whatever came after that_ wasn’t good for him. Mark paused, seemingly arriving at the same realization.

“Do you think I won’t hurt him when asked?”

Mark didn’t answer.

Yassen had knocked on the door to be let out, and the door had started to open when Mark said his last piece. “You’re still responsible for what happens to him.”

“Enough.”

“You could stop it,” Mark challenged.

Yassen paused in the doorway. He considered Mark. His words, when they came, were cold. They left no room for negotiation. “Alex, here. Now.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” Mark said, sudden alarm in his voice. Alex slowly stood up and walked across the room. Mark moved a step closer to Alex.

“Whatever I decide to do will be immeasurable worse if you fight.” Yassen was looking at Mark, not Alex. He meant if Mark fought this, not if Alex did. He already assumed Alex would go along. And then he’d hurt Alex to teach Mark to leave him alone. This wasn’t personal. Alex stared at the man’s blue eyes and wanted to run. This man was dangerous.

Mark reached out to grab Alex by the arm, and Alex moved aside and walked to the door. There wasn’t a point to fighting it. Yassen had already made up his mind.

“No,” Mark protested, but he didn’t move closer. “I’ll be quiet. Leave him alone!”

Yassen grabbed Alex by the arm and forced him out into the hallway ahead of Yassen. Alex was pushed along to the small, mostly empty study that he’d been in the other day with the camera. Alex swallowed.

“Sit,” Yassen said, before shoving Alex towards the desk. The only chair in the room was behind the desk, although there was a sofa on the wall. Alex took a seat in the chair.

Yassen walked to the back wall and opened the middle drawer in the filing cabinet. Alex didn’t want to watch. He had a good idea of what was inside after last time.

The lighter came out and Alex couldn’t look away.

Yassen spread out the objects he’d gathered on the desk. Alex crossed his arms and leaned back into the chair, away from the reality he knew he was about to face.

“Choose one.”

“Fuck you,” Alex said defensively. Which, objectively, was not the right thing to say to someone who was about to hurt a child for no real reason other than to prove they could.

“Choose one, or I will choose all of them,” Yassen said.

Everything just kept getting to worse.

Alex looked at the five household objects on the table and wanted to be sick. Lighter, matches, a Swiss army knife, a small hammer, and a nail. This was…to much. It was also a fake choice, because Yassen could almost certainly cause as much pain with any of these as with the others, regardless of the creativity he would need for some. Alex shook his head. He wasn’t choosing how to get hurt _for a conversation he hadn’t even wanted._ Mark and Yassen could figure out their problems some other time. Alex only wanted to figure out how to go home.

“All of them, then?” Yassen confirmed.

Alex felt his jaw twitch, but he didn’t respond otherwise. Yassen picked up the lighter, and then the knife. Then he put them back down and swept all of the objects into a small pile at one end of the table.

“When I take you back, you are going to tell your partner that we just decided how you are going to suffer the next time he feels like becoming an annoyance. I only give one warning. If you are lucky, that is all it will take.”

“You’re sick,” Alex said numbly.

Yassen ignored the word and took a seat on the couch. He pulled out his phone and began to type something.

Alex waited, willing himself out of a state of disbelief, while Yassen ignored him.

It didn’t take long to realize what was happening. Yassen had no desire to torture Alex, so he wouldn’t, but Mark didn’t know that. For all Mark knew, because he had argued with Yassen, Alex was writhing in pain right now. Yassen wasn’t going to bring Alex back right away because it hurt Mark.

“Mark was right,” Alex said. “He was just talking. You’ve been torturing us. We don’t even get to talk?”

“There are many times it is wiser not to talk,” Yassen agreed.

He should be angry. Instead Alex was resigned. He needed to remember that Yassen wasn’t, fundamentally, better than Walsh. He simply had more of a connection to Alex.

“Walsh told me I could write advice in my letter to family,” Alex said. “Here’s some advice for my dad, if I could send a letter back in time: If you meet a Russian teenager who wants to join SCORPIA, shoot him in the head.”

Yassen looked up from his phone at that. “I am not sure that your life would change as much as you’d prefer without my involvement.”

Which might have been true, if Yassen stabbing Ash hadn’t led to everything else.

But Alex had no desire to bring his godfather into this.

“If Ian was alive, MI6 would never have used me.” Alex had his own suspicions for why Ian had spent so much of Alex’s childhood training him, teaching him things no child really needed to know – but Ian was never going to throw his nephew into missions at 14. He might have been disappointed if Alex rejected the life he had picked out, but Alex needed to believe that Ian would have accepted it.

The assassin didn’t reply.

“You killed him, and MI6 blackmailed me. I never agreed. _I was 14_.”

“There is always a choice,” Yassen said.

“Sure, and then I never would have seen Jack again.”

“Your housekeeper?’

Alex wasn’t surprised Yassen knew that. It was still a reality check. People knew about Alex. There was no reason to tell anyone extra information when others already knew so much.

“Don’t tell your boss about her,” Alex said. It wasn’t an order or a plea, so much, but it certainly showed him coming to his senses. Alex should never have mentioned Jack’s name.

(It wouldn’t do Walsh any good to know about Jack anyway, as she was stowed away in a Welsh safehouse courtesy of MI6, but Alex didn’t want to deal with a new source of taunts. Especially if they involved Jack)

“I haven’t told my employer anything about you.”

And, probably as much for his own sake as for Alex’s, that seemed true. Yassen had taunted Mark with the knowledge that if Mark exposed a connection between Yassen and Alex it would lead to Yassen hurting Alex more. From what Alex had seen of Walsh, that was true. Walsh delighted in making others miserable. Mark crying over a goodbye letter was probably Walsh’s highlight of the day. If Walsh thought he could pay Yassen to hurt Alex while at the same time hurting Yassen, well, Alex had a suspicion that his days would be even worse than they had already been.

Yassen had no desire to hurt Alex more, so why would he reveal they knew each other?

“He’s waited long enough,” Alex said. “Bring me back now.”

“He can wait longer,” Yassen said.

Alex hands tightened on his arms, but he didn’t argue.

A while later Yassen stood and gestured that it was time to go back. They walked the short way back to Alex’s prison, and maybe Alex was imagining it but the man guarding the room looked almost disappointed that Alex wasn’t a wreck.

Sadists, the lot of Walsh’s people.

Mark had been crying. He looked up when Alex entered the room, collected but clearly having finished crying recently, and crossed the room. As soon as he reached Alex, he took hold of Alex’s shoulder with his good hand and pulled him in for a half hug. “Sorry,” Mark whispered.

“He’s fine,” Yassen said calmly, somewhere behind them.

Alex could almost feel Mark bristle. The man released him and, again, tugged Alex so that Mark was between Yassen and him.

Before Mark could say something else reckless, Alex added. “He didn’t touch me, Mark. I’m alright.”

Mark looked back at him and examined him. It didn’t take long. Alex looked the same as before, if not slightly more emotionally drained now.

Mark’s grip on Alex’s shoulder tightened but the man didn’t say anything.

“Alex?” Yassen said.

Right. “This time was a warning. If you annoy him again, he really will hurt me.”

Apparently, that wasn’t enough information, because Yassen clarified. “I gave Alex the option to pick the tool and he did not take it, leaving me with a number of options. It would be wise if you watched what you said, if you wish to avoid this.”

“I got the message,” Mark said. That was enough. Yassen left while Mark looked back to Alex.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. Not that Alex had done anything wrong, but Alex felt almost like an accomplice in hurting Mark. Mark probably wouldn’t have cried if he wasn’t convinced Alex was being tortured while he was helpless to help.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Mark said. His good hand dropped. “I shouldn’t have pressed it.”

“Maybe don’t drink so much next time,” Alex said. He doubted Walsh knew about this latest misadventure. But the man wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d wanted to get them drunk so they would sob while writing goodbyes, and Mark had taken the bait.

“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “And I’m sorry about earlier. Really, I am. I’ll stop asking so many questions. I can even shut up if you want.”

“The no questions part is nice, but I think talking might help.” Alex glanced at the door. “I think we really need to figure out how to get out of here. Now.”

Mark glanced at the door as well, then nodded. “Well, sandwiches first. But then? Let’s figure our way out of here.”


	8. Chapter 8

Mark listened while Alex thought aloud about the different ways they could try to take down one of the guards and make a break for the exit. The boy even had a plan for the route to take to avoid to detection by the security cameras once they broke out.

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was an option they may need. The potential plan promised more hope than just praying for escape did.

Mark had never, in his entire life, felt worse than he did in this moment.

He’d thought he was in hell when his hand was brutalized in the initial interrogation post-apprehension, but at least then Mark had resisted. He could take pride in the fact that he hadn’t given any information away. It hadn’t all been his fault – could even be seen as Alex’s fault, in a way.

The past hour or two were _entirely_ Mark’s fault.

Walsh was a sadist. Everyone in this place had to know that, and yet Mark had allowed himself to fall into the trap of listening to the man. And imagining his girlfriend hearing the news that Mark was dead, imagining never seeing her again, imagining that these actually would be his last words to her and the words may not even arrive, Mark had allowed himself to drink. Maybe he wasn’t drunk, not yet, but between the drink and his emotions he had then decided that the best plan was one he already knew wouldn’t work – try to bargain with Gregorovich.

Alex was back and he hadn’t been hurt, but he could have been. Gregorovich had all the power he needed to actually torture the boy because Mark hadn’t dropped the topic. If Gregorovich was an even crueler man than the monster he was, he would have. _And Alex being hurt would have been Mark’s fault._

Gregorovich had tolerated a certain amount of sass from Alex, but, of course, Alex was a teenager. And the signs had been there that Gregorovich’s patience was running thin the more Mark had talked. His tone at the end had been dangerous, and Mark had blundered ahead, made stupid by the liquor he never should have consumed.

“Mark?”

Shaking his head, Mark brought himself back to the present. “Sorry?” he asked.

“Did you hear what I asked?” Alex asked.

“No, sorry. Let’s take a break for a minute. I need to think.”

“Ok,” the boy agreed, falling into silence. He didn’t ask how Mark was feeling, although Mark was sure it probably wasn’t necessary. Mark hadn’t had time to wash his face before Alex had been brought back.

Mark took advantage of the break to grab some more of the medication he’d been relying on for the past few days, choking down the pills with some bottled water. Then he peered at Alex.

The boy was still, surprisingly, handling everything better than Mark could have ever expected. Hell, the boy was handling the pressure better than Mark himself. Of course, it was probably easier to not be an emotional wreck after writing a final letter to your family when your family was dead or gone. And Mark was more and more certain Alex’s parents weren’t in the picture.

The clues were there: Alex refusing to talk about his family, but also handling writing them a goodbye letter without breaking down. In fact, Alex had been reluctant to write a letter in the first place. Almost as if it didn’t matter.

If Mark was remembering their conversations correctly, the only family member Alex had mentioned on his own was an uncle. And Mark had his own suspicions about that situation. After all, MI6 hadn’t sent Alex after Gregorovich, but Alex had taken the initiative to chase down the assassin on his own anyway. Who ran after a killer unless lives were at risk or they were too blinded by a personal vendetta to think clearly?

“Do you want to keep talking?” the boy asked.

No. Mark wanted to be at home, without needing to think of plans for an escape from the situation from hell. He wanted Alex to be home, safe.

But Alex was ready to talk more. And if a child could do it, Mark could too.

“Yes,” Mark said. “Let’s continue.”

\---

It took time to work out the details of a viable plan. The sun was nearly gone from the sky when they finished discussing the contingencies of a final idea Mark had proposed.

In the end, they had three possible plans, each depending on their own set of circumstances.

The one thing Mark and Alex agreed on in all instances was that Yassen needed, if at all possible, to be elsewhere. It might not be possible. They’d have to wait and see. But between the nameless guards and Yassen, Alex was positive Yassen would prove the greater threat. If things got truly desperate, they would contend with Yassen. But Alex didn’t think they were quite there yet. They still had a bit of time before the final game night where Walsh had promised they would be present.

After hours of talking through hundreds of possible escape plans, the vast majority of which would end swiftly with one or more of them dead or back in Walsh’s “tender” care, they were silent. Mark sitting on the bed while Alex lay in the middle of the room, staring at the high ceiling.

Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, Alex was hungry. He hadn’t eaten a lot in the past few days because the circumstances had kept him focused on things that weren’t his appetite – and in a few instances, circumstances had stolen his appetite. It was still possible that the three plans they’d come up with would never happen due to a lack of the circumstances occurring. It was incredibly possible that circumstances would occur to make an escape attempt possible and then they would be swiftly caught. But the plans they had now were better than nothing, and Alex felt better than he had in a couple of days. He was looking forward to dinner.

Yassen, when he arrived, was empty handed.

Alex tensed. He had hoped the door opening meant dinner, not another of Walsh’s attempted emotional manipulations.

“Alex, pick up the dishes from lunch,” Yassen said. Alex moved none-too-quickly to pick up the plates.

“Where to now?” Alex asked, his words only slightly tinged with sardonic air.

“There’s food downstairs,” Yassen replied. “You can either come with me to eat or stay here.”

“Your boss busy elsewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m hungry.” Alex glanced back at Mark. The man was clearly trying to remain neutral. It wasn’t working; his hand was twitching, and his eyebrows kept drawing together. At least he appeared nervous instead of angry. “Are you joining?”

Mark nodded then stood to follow. Alex held the dishes from lunch as they went downstairs.

Dinner was awkward. Yassen, other than glancing at his phone a few times, was sitting quietly at the opposite end of the table from Alex. Mark kept glancing between Yassen and Alex as if expecting one or the other would suddenly do or say something explosive. A dinner between two lawyers who hated each other and were arguing a bitter divorce case would be less tense.

It was a long shot, but maybe conversation would at least distract Mark from how much he hated the other man. Alex shoved some rice around his plate and directed a question at Yassen. “So how much do you get paid exactly? You said the other day it was a lot, but how much is that?”

“I’m paid enough.”

“Do you get extra when you threaten children?”

Mark cut in before Yassen could respond.

“Alex.” Mark sounded strangled. “Please be quiet.”

Alex considered the best response. He could point out that they weren’t in any danger right now. More specifically to Mark’s clear worry, Alex wasn’t in any danger right now. Yassen’s blue gaze was inscrutable, but there were no signs that he was angry or annoyed. This was remarkably like previous conversations Alex had started, and Yassen had played along to a certain extent in each.

He also knew that whatever he said wouldn’t reassure Mark. The man had been crying earlier when he thought Alex was being tortured. If he thought Alex was close to being hurt for talking, even if Alex and Yassen both knew he wasn’t, whatever Alex said wouldn’t be enough to reassure Mark.

“Sorry,” Alex replied to Mark. “I’ll stop.”

The rest of dinner was as quiet as the first half had been. When both Alex and Mark were clearly done, Yassen took them back to the room, leaving the dishes from dinner and lunch on the table for someone else to deal with.

Mark was quiet even once they’d been back in the room for a while, so Alex went ahead and readied himself to get some sleep. He took a shower and brushed his teeth. Between the various clothes Alex had been given to change into over the past few days, there were enough that he’d spent little enough time in to feel as if he was in clean clothes as he prepared to sleep.

He was laying on the floor underneath a blanket when he heard, rather than saw, Mark sit next to him.

“Was anyone left to defend you from MI6?” the man asked, in a low tone.

He almost didn’t answer. They both knew he wasn’t asleep, but Mark would probably let it go. It was late and Mark had to have felt that the day was longer than Alex did.

Yet after today, Alex thought he might owe the man at least a response. Not an answer, but at least acknowledgement that Alex had heard the question. Mark had tried to help him, had been trying to help him for several days, even if it hadn’t felt like it at the time.

“Left from what?”

“Left after Gregorovich killed whoever was raising you.”

Alex should have felt surprised.

“Not really,” Alex admitted, without taking time to consider the implications. But, honestly, they were already on the same page. Mark and Yassen had both admitted that they had no plans to talk to Walsh about Yassen and Alex knowing each other, and between what Alex and Yassen had said Mark had gone ahead and put the other pieces together.

“Was it your uncle?” Mark asked after a few seconds where all Alex could hear was his own breathing.

Alex flinched. Mark sat quietly. Unhappily, Alex nodded.

There was a longer silence as Mark mulled that over. “Does Gregorovich know why you tried to kill him?”

Alex thought back to the first time they’d met, and, bizarrely, almost laughed. “Yeah.”

“Bastard,” Mark commented.

It was what it was. Ian had worked for MI6, and Yassen worked for people who paid him. The people that paid him weren’t fond of MI6 agents. John Rider would probably have felt bad that he’d trained the man who killed his brother, but Yassen evidentially wasn’t bothered by that fact. Alex wasn’t in the mood to dwell on it.

“We’ll get your freedom from them after we get back to London. I know people that can help.”

“I’m not going back to London with you.”

To Mark’s credit, he took that in stride. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere in Wales.”

“What’s in Wales?”

“Who’s in Wales. My friend. She used to be my housekeeper.” This was too much honesty. He knew it as he said it. Yet Mark was the only one he’d been able to talk to about this who truly understood, besides Jack after he’d found her again. Almost every other time he’d been in this situation Alex had been alone. He’d had no one else to talk to; no one else who understood how profoundly messed up the situation was.

Maybe he’d been better off alone. It would be harder to escape this time with someone, especially someone injured. And he wouldn’t have to worry about the ramifications of what he said coming back to haunt him later.

Mark was genuinely trying to help Alex though, and not just in this situation. Mark understood the blackmail that had led to this situation and wanted to make it stop.

Alex wasn’t sure if that was possible.

“Do you know how to find her?”

“I will once I get to my email.”

“I can help you,” Mark said.

Alex had seen members of MI6 try to help him before.

But that wasn’t fair. Mark knew Alex better than others did. Mark hopefully, at this point, trusted him not to need adult interference. “I’ll think about it.”

Mark crossed to the bed not long after, and Alex was left alone to consider the future as he drifted off to sleep.

\---

“I’m taking you both to lunch with my employer and a friend of his,” Yassen said. It was near noon, only a bit after Alex had woken up after his post-breakfast nap. So far little had happened that day to worry Alex besides Mark glaring perhaps a bit too aggressively at Yassen when breakfast had been delivered.

Mark and Alex exchanged looks. Would Walsh be better or worse with a friend? And who were they playing – themselves, the captured spies, or the David and his son?

Alex had his own suspicions. “Is his friend Darrah Ryan?”

Yassen appeared unsurprised that the man from dinner two nights before was Alex’s guess. “Yes.”

“He knows we’re prisoners,” Alex clarified. Ryan had acted as if he knew it the other night, but it helped to be sure.

“Yes.”

“Great.” Alex offered a fake smile. “Should be fun.” Because _fun_ would accurately describe Alex’s mood when Walsh and Ryan had tormented Alex at dinner.

“I’ll offer you a warning,” Yassen said. “Don’t cause offense. And you should listen to directions the first time given.”

Alex couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be creative with the punishment if we act out.”

“I will do what I am told to do if you act out,” Yassen corrected. He raised an eyebrow as Alex figured out the message.

Misbehave and _Walsh_ would come up with a punishment.

That was worse. Yassen would probably do less to Alex than Walsh might order the assassin to do. And it wasn’t Yassen who had stabbed Mark in the hand as an impromptu show of force when Alex had caused problems.

“Follow directions,” Alex said. “Got it.”

Yassen nodded. He looked at Mark. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” was the terse reply.

“How bad do you think it will be if we do what they want?” Alex asked,

“Clarify what you mean.”

Alex thought it over. “How much physical or emotional pain are either or both of us going to be in if we follow their directions?” At Alex’s question, Mark glanced between Alex and Yassen with an unreadable expression. Alex guessed that he was making Mark wary of bothering Yassen once again, but Yassen wasn’t showing any of the warning signs that had made Alex nervous yesterday.

Instead, Yassen seemed to consider for a second. “They were in a good mood when I left them,” he said after a moment of reflection.

“Good mood as in they won’t be out for blood?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is it going to be less bad for us than if they were in a bad mood?”

“Probably,” Yassen agreed.

Alex considered. “Is there anything I can do that will make them focus less on tormenting us?”

Mark cut in. “Are they waiting for us now? Because Alex, you’re thinking in the right way, but I’m guessing they’ll be more annoyed at us being late than they will be late at their messenger. And if they are annoyed at Gregorovich, I’m willing to bet he’ll blame our lateness on us rather than deal with their “good mood” himself.”

The corner of Yassen’s mouth twitched. “That is true.”

“Then we’re ready to go,” Mark said flatly. “No more questions.”

Yassen looked to Alex for confirmation. Alex, reluctantly, nodded that he was ready to go.

“If it’s a consolation,” Yassen said, “My employer wants you both well enough to continue appearances for another few days.”

“What a comforting thought,” Alex replied bitterly. Mark too was staring at Gregorovich with a cynical expression.

In the garden room, Walsh and Ryan were laughing with each other while seated at the dining table. An armed guard stood by the door of the room.

Mark led the three of them along the path to the table. Walsh was sitting at the head of the table, digging into a plate of salad. Next to him on both sides were two empty seats, although each place was set with a plate and set of silverware, as well as a glass of water. Ryan was sitting two places from Walsh on the far side of the table. His place was also set and his plate half full of salad as well.

Two places weren’t set. The other end of the table, which Yassen took, and the empty seat between what was now Yassen’s spot and one of the empty but set seats next to Walsh.

Neither Alex nor Mark took a seat yet. Ryan finished a bite of salad then impatiently waved Alex over to where he was sitting. Alex walked around the table to stand beside Ryan.

“Good afternoon,” Alex said. If they were both in a good mood, maybe playing into their mind games would help.

“Good afternoon,” Walsh replied easily.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “I never asked. How did you find the drink I gave you the other night?”

“It wasn’t quite to my tastes.”

“No, you made a face when it went down,” Ryan chuckled. Then he looked at Walsh, and, almost casually, proposed an idea that was almost certainly meant to get a rise out of Alex, Mark, or both. “I know having both of them here presents a good number of ideas already, but have you thought about going after their families?”

In the corner of his eye, Mark stiffened. Alex didn’t have to look at the other agent to know the man’s expression probably didn’t hide the horror he was feeling well.

“No,” Walsh dismissed. “I don’t kidnap people. It’s too much trouble. Besides, these two are facing the consequences of their own actions; they tried to spy on me. Their families haven’t done anything and I’m not bringing them into this.”

Mark shifted into a more relaxed posture.

“That’s kind of you.” Ryan acknowledged.

“I do what I can,” Walsh said with a wide smile.

“Don’t you agree, Alex?” Ryan’s gaze had once again fallen onto Alex.

“So kind,” Alex echoed. He didn’t mean his words to sound as sarcastic as they did.

Walsh’s smile faded. Ryan held up a hand. “Conan, don’t work yourself up over the child. You said it yourself the other night. Children these days don’t have the discipline they need. We can fix that.” He took a bite of his salad, then a sip of his water. “David, or whatever your real name is, your partner needs a quick lesson. Go ahead and teach it to him, will you?”

Mark looked across the table at Alex uncertainly. “Don’t be sarcastic,” he said.

Ryan shook his head. “Not what I meant. Alex, did you pick up on it?”

Alex glanced at the food laid out in front of him for a second before looking up to give a nod. He wasn’t positive, but he had a guess.

“Spit it out,” Walsh said unkindly.

“You want him to hit me.”

Ryan hummed in approval, then waved Mark to Alex. “Go ahead. And make it hard. If I think he got off lightly, then I’ll have you do it again.”

Mark stared at the chair between Ryan and Walsh, his gaze hard. “I’d rather not.”

“Do it,” Alex said. He didn’t want to know what consequences they faced if they disobeyed direct orders. It had only been a few minutes ago that Yassen had impressed upon them the importance of ‘following directions’; it would take a fool to ignore the advice at the first direction their tormentors gave.

Mark seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. His hard stare faltered, and he took a few slow, faltering steps around the table to get closer to Alex.

“Faster, please,” Ryan said. Mark closed the gap between himself and Alex.

Walsh and Ryan were two peas in a sadistic pod. Alex crossed his arms to resist the urge to hit the sadist closest to him.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said.

Alex shrugged. “It’s fine.”

The slap was harder than a tap, but it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Ryan, Alex knew as soon as the blow connected.

Mark knew it too. The man looked to the two men in front of him, and Ryan waved his hand to indicate he expected another attempt.

The older agent looked at Alex reluctantly.

The second slap was hard enough to leave Alex stumbling a step to the side, almost into the table. When Alex recovered his footing and looked back up at Mark, the other man was staring at the distant window past Walsh as if he could distract himself from what he’d done. Not that Alex blamed Mark. If the older agent hadn’t hit hard enough, things would have only gotten worse.

“Good enough for now,” Walsh said.

Ryan made a soft noise that wasn’t quite agreement, but he let it drop. After taking another bite of his salad, the man patted the back of the chair between himself and Walsh. “Alex, sit here. David, sit across from him.”

“His real name is Mark,” Walsh pointed out.

“Mark, sit there,” Ryan amended, nodding at the chair across from Alex’s.

Alex sat down between the two sociopaths warily. He noticed the knife in front of him and rested his hand on the table millimeters away from the handle of the knife.

“Alex,” Yassen said impatiently.

Ryan tilted his head to see what the admonishment was about. He must have caught the knife’s position relative to Alex’s hand before Alex had taken his hand off the table, as Ryan then chuckled and clapped the back of Alex’s chair. “Whoever hired him doesn’t know what they’re missing.”

“Or they know exactly what they’re missing,” Walsh replied. “I won’t be sorry when it’s time to put him in the ground.”

“Speaking of which, what were you telling me earlier? Something about the order you were killing them in?”

Across the table Mark reacted with a jerked head shake.

Walsh smiled at Alex. “I had your partner pick which of you was going to watch the other be killed. Did he tell you?”

“He told me you discussed it.”

“Did he tell you his final answer?”

“No.”

“Leave it a surprise,” Ryan suggested. “Oh, Alex and Mark, help yourselves to some food, if you don’t mind me taking over as host Conan.”

Walsh laughed. “Feel free. Assuming they both have their appetites still.”

Mark didn’t move for any of the food. Alex hesitated, and then reached for the salad bowl in the center of the table. He wasn’t going to let Walsh or Ryan ruin the food today. At least, he wasn’t going to let them see that they’d spoiled the food for him.

“Mark, would you like to hear how I’m thinking of having you killed?”

Alex finished piling salad onto his plate and snuck a glance at Mark. The man was stone-faced in response to Walsh’s question.

“No.”

Ryan laughed.

“Alex, how about you?” Walsh asked.

Alex shook his head while he chewed. Whatever Walsh’s plans were, they wouldn’t be pleasant, and Alex didn’t intend to be around by that point.

“I’d like to hear,” Ryan said.

Of course he would.

Walsh leaned onto the table, steepling his fingers together as he glanced around the table. Alex avoided eye contact with the man.

“I’ll give a clue,” Walsh said. “I’ll respect the order Mark suggested for who dies first. But I’m deciding on a game for them to play to decide who gets the painful death, and who gets the mercifully quick one.”

What a kindness.

“Do you have a game suggestion?” Ryan asked, clearly directing his question at Alex.

Alex took another bite as he considered. “Tic-tac-toe?” he suggested. “If we tie, we both go free.”

“He’s clever,” Ryan remarked. He clapped the back of Alex’s chair again.

“Yes, which is the problem.” Walsh stabbed an olive with his fork. “He’s clever, and British, and he’s managed to work it so I’ve kept him around a few days longer than I originally planned. I can’t even really have him hurt, because he’s made sure others know he’s attending my next game night, and they’ll be expecting him in one piece.”

Ryan frowned. “I thought you’d already had him hurt.”

“Not seriously. Not yet.”

The salad was tasteless at this point, but Alex kept eating, resisting the urge to push his plate away.

“You hurt the other one.” Ryan eyed Mark.

“Yes,” Walsh admitted. “But there were fewer appearances to keep up then.”

“After Friday, you can have your fun.”

“Friday, I plan to have some fun as well. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to have Alex play or not, but I’m leaning towards not. As fun as it would be to beat him in front of a crowd, I don’t want to deal with him making any last-ditch attempts to get help.”

“No one would believe him anyway.”

Yassen spoke for the first time. “They might. It would be better if you did not give him the chance to put the idea that he needs help into anyone’s head. Alex was already saying things at your first party that seemed suspicious.”

“Was he?” Ryan laughed. “Clever child.” This time he didn’t clap the back of Alex’s chair, but the back of Alex’s head. Alex instinctively put out his hands to catch himself against the table. He managed to avoid falling face first into the remains of his salad as he reeled from the blow.

“Don’t mess up his face,” Walsh said dispassionately. “I don’t want anyone to have the idea that he ‘needs help’.”

Alex grimaced before he sat back up. At the edge of the table, Yassen frowned. As soon as he caught that Alex was looking at him, the frown disappeared, and he once again appeared emotionless.

“What do you say, daddy spy?” Ryan reached over and grabbed Alex’s right hand with his left and pulled it onto the table in front of himself. Ryan took his own knife and rested it on the back of Alex’s wrist. “A small cut really isn’t noticeable, and he could have fallen and scraped himself if he has just two or three. Do you think he deserves it?”

Alex closed his eyes and took a breath.

“ _No_ ,” Mark said intently.

“Darrah, I’m eating. And I don’t need the waitstaff to bring in the next course while the child is bleeding out on the table.”

Ryan released Alex’s hand as soon as he’d grabbed it. “Of course not. I’m kidding, of course. But it’s a shame I’m leaving tomorrow for London myself, or I’d gladly help you however you decide to kill them.”

Walsh and Ryan turned the conversation into a discussion of some mutual business acquaintances, ignoring Alex and Mark’s presence as the main course was delivered. Mark and Alex both ate, although judging from Mark’s expression, neither of them were hungry.

And then the conversation was back to them.

“I read your letter, Mark,” Walsh said.

Mark’s expression was hard to read.

“I thought it would be emotional since it brought you to tears. But I didn’t expect to feel my heartstrings tug the way they did. You must really treasure your girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

“But she’s not your wife? Or fiancée?” Walsh questioned.

“Not yet.”

Ryan and Walsh looked at each other and Ryan devolved into laughter while Walsh smirked. “Is she going to marry a corpse?”

“No,” Mark said. He left it at that. Ryan stopped laughing only to shake his head in silent mirth.

“Alex,” Walsh said, “Do you hate your parents?”

“Sure,” Alex replied. Let Walsh think what he wanted.

“You’re not answering me seriously, but I seriously think you do detest your parents. Which maybe you should, considering how they raised you. But you had an opportunity to say goodbye to the two people that raised you, and all you had to say was that you appreciated that they taught you well?”

“I almost said I appreciated that they taught me not to be a sociopathic bastard, but I thought it might cause offense to any sociopathic bastards who read my letter,” Alex said.

He was already bracing himself against the table when Ryan hit him this time, again on the back of the head.

“I imagine your parents are ashamed of you,” Walsh said. “You got caught, you couldn’t defend yourself, and you caused your partner to be hurt worse. I’d feel ashamed if that was my child.”

“I don’t think my parents are aware enough to care.”

“Druggies?” Ryan asked.

“Sure,” Alex agreed again.

“The truth, please,” Walsh said.

“The truth is that I’d feel ashamed if I were your child too.”

Mark looked aghast. Walsh and Ryan were quiet. Yassen was the only one who didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by Alex’s remark, and he still managed to appear disapproving.

So much for following Yassen’s advice.

At least the bastards weren’t bothering Mark anymore.

“Don’t bother,” Walsh said after a moment, holding his hand up placatingly. “Darrah, it’s not worth it. I just decided which of them is going to be suffering when they die, and I’ll make a video of it for you.”

“He’s only 15,” Mark said, quietly.

“I don’t care.”

Alex, perhaps wisely, decided to shut up. Nothing he would say would make this better. And if the past few minutes had been Walsh and Ryan in a good mood, Alex really didn’t want to know what they were like in a bad mood.

Ryan took another few bites of the meal while Walsh contemplated Alex.

“Would your parents enjoy a video of you dying?” Walsh asked eventually.

Alex stared down at the table silently.

“Let me think of a way to punish him for you,” Ryan suggested. “I might be leaving soon but I’ll call you with any ideas.”

“Do,” Walsh agreed. He pushed his plate away. “If you don’t mind, I might cut short our lunch. I have matters to see to, and I’ve run out of patience with my guests, or I should say, I’ve run out of patience with one in particular.”

“Of course.”

“Gregorovich, see Darrah to his vehicle,” Walsh said. Yassen nodded and stood up.

Alex didn’t look at Mark. He knew what the other man was thinking already, and he didn’t need either of their faces to give it away.

Condition one of all three of their escape plans was now in motion: Yassen was out of the picture.

Walsh watched as his friend and employee left the room, and then he too stood. He gestured at the guard by the door curtly.

“Take them to their room. Watch it if no one else is there. I’ll have someone relieve you soon.”

There was no other guard outside the door to their prison. No one else to fight them when they made their attempt to freedom. This was better than they’d hoped.

“Get in,” the man guarding them said. Mark nodded and opened the door.

The problem with this door, Alex and Mark had discussed while making their plans, was that it had been modified to keep people in. The lock was on the outside of the door, and there wasn’t even a handle on the inside to let them out, assuming that they hadn’t been locked in.

But they couldn’t be locked in if something was jamming the door.

Mark stepped into the room first, before immediately standing against the wall on the other side of the door. Alex stepped in last, slowly, reaching into his pocket as he walked inside. He had just stepped inside, letting the door start to close, when he whirled around and pressed the edge of the card he’d stolen at the edge of the door frame. The guard wasn’t paying close enough attention to his prisoners to watch Alex press the ace in the way of the door mechanism, but if he had Alex would have pled ignorance to a greater plot. After all, all he was holding was a playing card.

As it was, what the guard knew was that the door was supposed to be closed, but it wasn’t closing all the way.

“Back away from the door,” the man said.

“We’re away,” Mark said, from the other side of the door.

The door opened and the guard peered down at where the door should close in place.

By that point Alex wasn’t holding a card in place. In fact, at that point he was directing a punch at the guard’s neck.

And it connected.

The man gasped in alarm as he moved his free hand to clutch at his neck. And Alex reached out with two hands, one to grab the gun and the other to break the man’s wrist.

The guard would have screamed if he wasn’t desperately attempting to breath through the attacked neck.

And Alex had the gun.

Alex brought the end of the gun down on the guard’s head, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“Go!” Mark urged, and they were running down the hallway to the staircase. No one was around except a maid walking with a duster down the stairs. She looked up at them, alarmed but not scared, as they passed her sprinting down the staircase. Alex thought she might not have seen the gun.

The front door was in front of them, but it wasn’t where they were going. The front door led to the gardens and the driveway that led out of the walled estate, but there was a gate at the front. Presumably with a man inside the gatehouse, who could see them and stop them, or call for help if that man wasn’t armed.

And then of course, Yassen was supposedly out front, walking Darrah Ryan to his car.

“This way,” Alex said, ducking back into a hallway that led towards the back door. He could hear Mark behind him.

They followed the path Alex had traced through the manor days before when he’d seen the security feed. It wasn’t a path invisible to the guards – if someone was watching the security feeds right now, they would see Alex and Mark running. They would have even seen Alex knock out the guard. The truth was there weren’t any paths through the mansion that would let them escape without being seen. But this path was the closest Alex could make.

The door that led them to the grandiose back gardens was unlocked and unguarded, and suddenly Alex and Mark were outside in the chilly air. They weren’t free of Walsh’s lands, not yet, but they were closer.

They needed to get to the stone wall that surrounded the entire estate and climb over it. And they needed to get there fast.

Alex and Mark ran past the carefully crafted and well-maintained topiaries, past a flowerbed of hibernating flowers that seemed to extend endlessly in both directions, and through the meters of grass field on the edge of Walsh’s lands.

Then they were at the wall.

It wasn’t high; perhaps two and half times Alex’s height. And, Alex was reassured to see, Mark’s intelligence from his walk in the gardens was right. The stones that made up this wall weren’t smooth. There was enough texture to this wall, enough large stones jutting out just enough to hold onto or rest your toes on, that both Alex and Mark should be able to climb the wall with little difficulty. Perhaps Mark, with one hand out of commission, would have some difficulty, but it was the best plan they had.

Alex looked back at the mansion. It was still. Quiet. No one else was outside in the gardens.

“Alex,” Mark said.

He turned back to the wall. Mark had stepped up onto the first stone nearest to the ground.

Alex shoved the gun in the pocket of his hoodie and started to climb.

It was slower going than Alex had hoped, like scaling the difficult wall at a climbing gym. Or slightly faster than scaling a cliff.

It was also, he realized quickly, something that was easier to do with two working hands. Mark was climbing even slower than he was and considering the rush they were in to get over the wall, they were both going too slow.

Or maybe they weren’t. Alex reached up and tried to grab onto something, only to realize he was grasping at air. He was reaching higher than the top of the wall. Alex readjusted his grip and pulled himself to the top of the wall just as he heard Mark fall to the ground beside him.

“Fuck!” Mark swore.

Alex sat down on the top of the stone wall and looked down. “Alright?” he asked, terrified to hear the answer.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Is the other side of the wall safe?”

Alex looked over the wall and saw only fields dotted with occasional trees and, far in the distance, a few large houses. It was safe.

“Alex, stop!”

Alex froze. He turned around. Yassen was walking quickly across the lawn, followed by a guard that Alex recognized from the past few days but hadn’t yet seen today. Yassen’s gun was drawn, and it was pointed at him. Slowly, making sure none of his movements were suspicious, Alex raised his hands in the air.

His heart thumped in his chest.

They were done.

“You’re going to let the kid go,” Mark called, with an edge in his voice. He was pointing a gun at Yassen with his good hand. Where had that come from? Alex realized the familiar weight of the firearm wasn’t in his hoodie pocket. It must have fallen when he was climbing, and Mark had picked it up.

Yassen didn’t respond, and he didn’t stop walking closer. Neither did the guard behind him.

“Stop!” Mark commanded loudly.

Yassen stopped, near the flowerbeds around 30 meters from the wall, and almost instantaneously afterwards the guard behind him stopped too.

They both had weapons. Yassen’s was pointed at Alex. The guard’s gun was pointed at Mark.

“Put it on the ground,” Yassen said.

Mark didn’t move. Alex took in the proverbial battlefield and realized shortly before Mark did that it was pointless to fight.

Alex and Mark had one gun between them, and they were both easy targets. Alex was sitting, defenseless, atop a stone wall. Mark couldn’t shoot two people at once; with his non-dominant arm being the only one not in a cast, he maybe couldn’t even shoot one person at once. At least, not fatally.

Yassen and his guard were both armed. They could possibly be shot by Mark – they had no place to hide – but if one of them went down the other would shoot Mark, and then be free to chase down Alex.

“You need to let the kid go.” Mark wasn’t wavering. He knew he had no chance to escape. He couldn’t climb the stone wall quickly with one arm out of commission even if there weren’t two armed opponents ready to shoot him down.

“No,” Yassen said. “We don’t.”

They were all motionless, poised, and ready to fire if their opponent took aim. Alex kept his hands raised, waiting for the decision to be reached. Other than shivering in the cold air, he was still.

Yassen’s eyes stayed on Alex as he addressed Mark. “You will only have another chance to escape if you come with me now, without making me shoot you.”

“We won’t have another chance to escape,” Mark replied.

“Perhaps not,” Yassen said. “But you also won’t when the child has a hole in his knee.”

The conclusion was inevitable; it just took Mark longer than Alex to realize it. And then, without a word, Mark placed the gun on the ground.

“Stay there,” Yassen said to Alex, his gun still pointed up at him. Mark, below him, said nothing. Alex kept his hands raised. He didn’t move as he watched Yassen approach. The man looked at Mark. “Walk towards the manor.”

Mark walked, slowly, closer to the flowers. The other guard said something Alex couldn’t hear, and Mark was forced to kneel, and his good hand brought behind his head by the guard.

Alex looked down at Yassen and met the man’s cold blue eyes. They looked at each other.

Wind rustled Alex’s hair.

“If you jump down to the other side now, I will miss you when I shoot.” Yassen spoke quietly enough that the guard and Mark, at least two dozen meters away, wouldn’t hear.

Alex stared down at Yassen.

“Leave, now.”

His gaze wandered back to Mark.

“He is dead no matter what you do,” Yassen said.

That was probably true.

“Alex, go.” Yassen was still pointing his gun at Alex, but Alex was willing to bet that the man was speaking the truth. Alex could roll over the edge of the wall to safety and Yassen wouldn’t shoot him. Alex might break a limb in the fall, if he landed badly, but with luck on his side he wouldn’t.

He looked back over the fence. There was only the grass of the Irish countryside, as far as he could see, if Alex ran straight back. Someone could climb up this wall themselves and shoot after him, and he’d be a running target unless he got to the nearest tree and hid behind it. Or Alex could run around the outskirts of the fence and get to the road in the front of the manor, which was the original plan, and he would probably be safe.

But Mark wouldn’t be safe. While Alex ran for safety, Mark would be brought inside and killed. Even if Alex got to the Irish authorities and convinced them he was telling the truth, and even if they stormed Walsh’s manor, Mark would be dead before rescue came.

“Go,” Yassen repeated, still quietly, with a voice that was not used to being disobeyed.

Alex took another look at the freedom beyond the estate and lowered his hands to the wall.

“Don’t shoot,” he said in a clear tone. One that the guard and Mark could probably hear. “I’m coming down.”

The moment Alex’s feet were both back on the ground of Walsh’s estate, Yassen grabbed him by his left upper arm. The grip wasn’t as tight as it could have been.

Alex turned to see the mansion, and more importantly, the guard and Mark. The man was kneeling still, looking forward at the guard. He couldn’t see Alex, but he had to know from the lack of gunshots what had happened. Alex hadn’t escaped.

He took a deep breath and met Yassen’s frozen gaze. “So,” Alex said, “We should probably go see your boss.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long. Most of it has been written for a while, but the last 25% took a bit of shaping – a bit more than I expected - before I thought the chapter was complete. Huge thanks to everyone who is reading this story, and huge thanks again to those who comment.
> 
> That said, enjoy.

\---

“So,” Alex said, trying to sound less shaken than he knew he was, “We should probably go meet your boss.”

Yassen’s hold on his arm was almost absent. Alex had the suspicion that it was more for appearances of coercion than for a real attempt to root him in place. The man had promised to let him run away from this situation unscathed, after all.

Yassen had been rooting for him to escape, it seemed.

A flash of anger crossed Yassen’s face and was gone in a second. “You could have been gone.”

Possibly he could have been gone – maybe even probably. Possibly someone else would have caught up to him around the wall. Alex thought about shrugging, but he doubted Yassen was in the mood to deal kindly with Alex acting apathic towards his own life. And Alex wasn’t apathetic about his own life - he just didn’t have it in him to leave while knowing it sentenced Mark to death. “Maybe,” Alex said instead.

“You’ll both be killed.” There was a strange tone to Yassen’s voice, but Alex didn’t try to pretend he understood it. What he knew was Yassen was almost certainly right. Probably Alex and Mark were both about to die. Alex hoped not, but it was unlikely they’d get a second chance to escape.

They’d have to try.

—

Mark and Alex had gone through so many potential plans. Discussed potential paths through the manor, potential distractions, and potential ending scenarios to each planned escape.

One thing they’d never discussed was what to do if they were separated. What to do if Alex could make it over an obstacle and Mark couldn’t. They should have talked about it. Mark should have told Alex to run. Should have made the boy abandon him. Should have taken preventative measures to ensure at least one of them survived.

Gregorovich entered Mark’s periphery, his hand on Alex’s arm, the boy trailing beside and a step behind the killer.

As the pair arrived in front of him, Mark tried to read the boy’s face. Alex was hard to read at the best of times. Now, at the tail end of a failed escape, his serious expression was even more masked than usual.

Gregorovich stopped a meter away from Mark.

“Stand up.”

The man who had a gun pointed at Mark didn’t lower his weapon, yet Mark stood up, allowing his hands to fall to beside him as he stood.

“Whose idea was it?”

Gregorovich was a hateful man. A killer who had threatened to hurt Alex due to a minor irritation. Mark didn’t put it past the man to question them into a trap – if Mark took responsibility for this attempt to escape, perhaps it would be Alex that was hurt in retribution.

He would have to take the risk. He could claim responsibility and hope that it tipped the scales enough so that Mark was the one Walsh hated the most, not Alex.

Mark found his voice. “Mine.”

Alex shook his head and opened his mouth as if to object. Mark prepared to argue, but it didn’t come to that. Gregorovich’s hand tightened on Alex’s forearm. “Be quiet, little one,” the man said. He spoke calmly, but Mark had the sudden suspicion that they all knew this was not the time to argue. Alex shut his mouth.

Gregorovich then looked at him, unreadable. “You’re going to take responsibility.”

“Yes,” Mark said.

Again, Alex appeared ready to object.

Why hadn’t the kid run ahead when Mark had fallen? Then they wouldn’t both be dead. Heavily, Mark interjected before the boy could say something to leave himself hurt as well. “Alex, shut up.”

“A very good idea,” Gregorovich agreed. “We are going to go see what the consequences of this excursion are. Alex, you are going to let your partner explain.”

“Even if he does say it was his idea, he’s lying,” Mark said. “It was my idea and I made him help.”

It was impossible to tell if Gregorovich believed him. Somehow, Gregorovich seemed smart enough to know that Alex was the one who had thought this plan through. The other guard, however, standing next to Mark and glowering, seemed to accept that it was Mark’s idea easily enough. His glare was reserved for Mark alone.

“Alex,” Gregorovich said. “If you say anything or do anything to make Walsh think you are to blame, or if you deflect attention from your partner at any point, I will kill him.”

Whatever Gregorovich’s reasons to try and protect Alex, Mark believed Gregorovich. The killer’s actions said that he was fonder of Alex than Mark, and his past work with SCORPIA had to mean he wouldn’t have a problem killing anyone.

Alex glanced between Gregorovich and Mark, apparently reaching the same conclusion. “Ok.”

“It’s going to be bad,” Mark warned Alex. He didn’t know how bad, exactly, but Walsh had tormented them already plenty for relatively minor transgressions. Going so far to attempt to escape?

Whatever happened next was going to be bad.

Alex didn’t say anything, but Gregorovich surprised Mark by jumping into the conversation. “Yes,” the assassin agreed curtly.

“You should put Alex somewhere else,” Mark said.

“No. My employer will want you both there.”

Them both going to see Walsh was a bad idea. If Gregorovich wanted Alex to be, well, _less_ hurt at the end of this than Mark, Alex needed to be somewhere else.

“Let me figure this out, alone,” Mark pleaded.

“No,” Alex said.

The look Gregorovich gave Alex was an odd mixture of cold fury tempered with something Mark couldn’t describe, but when the man spoke there was no hint of any the emotions on his face. “Your job is to be quiet.”

“I’ll take the responsibility,” Mark said again. “Alone. Just put him somewhere else, where he doesn’t see it.”

Gregorovich looked to the building for a minute before he pulled out his phone wordlessly, pressed a button, and put the phone to his ear. He listened for a second, and then replied, “Yes.” Mark watched for a minute as the man was quiet, listening, and then he spoke into the phone again. “The older agent is arguing that the younger one had nothing to do with it. I’m inclined to believe him. Who do you want me to bring to you?”

The answer took only a second, and then Gregorovich put his phone away. “Both of you are joining Walsh.”

There wasn’t much to say to that.

Gregorovich appeared to agree because he took charge of the situation.

“Walk towards the building.”

“Wait,” Mark said, before locking eyes with Alex. “Don’t say anything. Really. Nothing. Answer questions and remember this is my fault and you didn’t want to listen. If you say anything smart, he’ll kill me, and you’ll be in a bad state. And if you get killed for this I’ll deserve to die.”

Mark let his gaze turn towards Gregorovich as he said that ‘he’ll kill me’, and he took in the man’s expression. It wasn’t kind. Mark had an idea that the man agreed – if Alex was killed for this, it would be Mark’s fault.

\---

Mark and the man Alex didn’t know entered Walsh’s office a moment before Yassen and Alex. When it was just the two of them in the hallway, Yassen paused before they were in front of the door. The man’s light grip kept Alex out of view of whoever all was in Walsh’s office – presumably just Mark, Walsh, and the guard. Alex glanced at Yassen. His blue gaze was locked on Alex, considering.

“You’ll stay quiet,” Yassen murmured. This time, it wasn’t the threat it had been moments ago. There was no hint of violence behind the words, not that Alex doubted Yassen’s prior promise to kill Mark if Alex got in the way of Walsh’s retribution. This time, it was only a warning. _If you want what’s best for you, you’ll stay quiet._

Somehow Alex wasn’t optimistic _staying quiet_ was going to protect him. But if it reassured Yassen that Alex wouldn’t be trouble, then he would agree. “Sure.”

Apparently, that reply was enough, because Yassen, without responding, let go of Alex’s arm and stepped into the room. Alex followed without allowing any moments of hesitation. Delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to help.

Mark was standing hesitantly in front of Walsh’s desk, where the man was typing something into a laptop. Three or four sheets of paper were stacked on the desk next to his laptop, and Walsh glanced between the papers and his laptop wordlessly.

In Alex’s experience, it was never good when the madman began to ignore him.

There hadn’t been many changes to the office in the day since Alex had been here. There were still two chairs in front of Walsh’s desk, although as Alex watched, Yassen strode forward, grabbed one of the two chairs by its backrest and pulled it away from the desk to the wall next to the door.

“Alex, sit here,” Yassen said.

Mark had said he planned to take responsibility for this alone. Yassen apparently meant to let him, and to aid the proceedings by physically separating Alex from Walsh.

He wanted to say no.

The unstated tension in the room indicated that arguing right now would be an _incredibly_ _ill-advised_ move.

Alex sat down.

Walsh looked up at that, momentarily. “Take the remaining chair, Mark.”

Mark slid into the chair quietly as Walsh looked back down at his work.

 _It’s going to be bad._ Mark’s words rang in Alex’s ears. Whatever the fallout of this was, it wouldn’t be pleasant, whether the actual consequences would fall here and now, or they would be consequences promised for the near future. Walsh wasn’t someone who would tolerate rebellion – they had seen that already. He lived a lavish lifestyle furnished by investments into the criminal world, from what Alex could see, and he was used to existing surrounded by yes men like his friend Darrah Ryan and hench-people like Yassen who would follow orders without complaint. Even if, as Alex had seen, those orders were to imprison or torture people he didn’t enjoy.

In front of Alex, Mark stared forward. All Alex could see was the back of Mark’s head as the man held himself rigidly still. Next to Mark, the guard held his weapon aimed at the floor.

Yassen leaned against the wall next to Alex and crossed his arms. There was no more hint of his own firearm, not that Alex expected Yassen to be doing tricks with it or holding it against Alex’s own head.

Alex wasn’t usually one to fidget restlessly when he was bored in school, but as the minutes wore on and Walsh ignored them Alex couldn’t stop himself from squirming in his chair. _It’s going to be bad._ Walsh either didn’t care that Mark and Alex were surely waiting for the axe to fall, or he was putting on a show of dismissing them to make their unease worse. Neither situation was promising. Glancing between Yassen and the guard offered no reassurance either, as Alex had no leverage on the guard and enough knowledge of Yassen to know the man would happily put a bullet in Mark’s brain and would probably, even in unhappily, put a bullet in Alex’s as well.

Alex tapped his foot against the carpet a few times nervously before Walsh glanced up at him. The man’s gaze was, chillingly, emotionless. Mark didn’t glance back, but he seemed to tense.

“Still, Alex,” Yassen instructed.

He stopped himself from tapping. Walsh’s empty gaze returned to his screen, and Alex bit his lip.

It must only have been twenty minutes later when Walsh finally closed his laptop and turned his attention to them. The man stared deeply at Alex for a moment that stretched far too long before Mark took his attention again.

Mark took charge from the moment Walsh’s gaze fell on him. “It was my fault,” Mark said.

“What was your fault?” Walsh asked mildly.

“Trying to leave.”

Beside Alex, Yassen himself was as still as a statue. Alex wondered what the man could really do in the moment if he jumped in now and told the truth – all their best ideas to leave had been Alex’s own.

Maybe nothing, in the moment. But Mark would die later. Yassen had promised to kill him if Alex took the blame, and Alex hadn’t yet seen Yassen say something he didn’t mean.

“The teenage spy didn’t have something to do with it?”

“No,” Mark replied immediately. “He didn’t want to go. Alex only helped because he thought I’d die without him.”

“And who knocked out my guard? You, with your broken right hand?”

There was a long pause no one spoke to fill, and then Walsh smirked. “It’s rather convenient how that works. You come up with a working plan and you make the boy you keep wanting to tell me is 15 do all the dirty work of knocking people out. But I will note, while it may have been your plan, he didn’t refuse.”

“He was scared. If I left and it was only him, you’d hurt him. If I tried to leave and failed, you’d hurt me.”

“And now you’ve both tried to leave and failed, so it stands to reason I get to hurt both of you.” Walsh’s tone suggested his words were a question, but he ended the sentence in a way that implied his words were a statement of intent.

Mark’s reply was more callous than Alex expected. “If you want.”

Walsh narrowed his eyes. “I do want, and I will. But I rather hoped you would object.”

Alex crossed his arms himself to stop himself from shivering. However hopeless it was, he’d hoped Mark would object as well.

The movement was enough to grab Walsh’s attention. “Do you have anything to add to the story, Alex? Perhaps some part of the daring escape plan was your plan after all?”

Alex couldn’t bring himself to lie out loud. He also couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, not with Yassen invested enough in the events to potentially carry through on his word. Mutely, Alex shook his head.

“I kept him up a bunch of nights in a row asking questions about what he was doing working for MI6 as a child, and eventually making him listen to my ideas of escape. He didn’t suggest anything,” Mark said, as calm as Alex had ever heard him. The lie almost sounded believable.

“Poor child,” Walsh intoned mockingly.

“He’s not the one you should be angry at,” Mark said.

Walsh leaned back in his chair. “As modern parents say, I’m not angry, simple disappointed. Unfortunately for you, I think you’re about to find out what that entails.”

“ _Fine_. I deserve it. But Alex didn’t do anything.”

Walsh folded his hands in the air in front of him and tilted an eyebrow. “I don’t particularly care that you think he didn’t, but you should think about the facts before you make that claim. We just decided that he did, regardless of whatever else you would like to claim, knock out my guard. He wasn’t out longer than a few minutes, and I sent him home with a headache a minute before you arrived at my office, so at least I’m not out a man. He would, however, likely object to the idea that Alex did nothing. And then Alex ran with you, so I will _also_ object to the notion that all Alex did was knock someone out. No, I suspect we finally saw that MI6 did not hire him for no reason. He’s far from innocent in MI6’s intrusion into my home and he isn’t innocent in your attempted escape.”

“He was coerced.”

“We can agree he was under pressure. I’m likely to believe he is less guilty than you in the plan to escape. Yet ultimately, he bears responsibility as well.”

There was a tense silence as no one spoke for a moment. Selfishly, Alex stayed as still as possible. He didn’t want to leave Mark dealing with Walsh alone, but hearing those words, he suddenly didn’t want Walsh’s attention on him either. The conversation had already drifted enough to him without Walsh staring him down as well.

Walsh broke the silence. “I can think of a few ways to proceed, but let’s give you a chance for some input, Mark. You thought of a plan to escape, and then you took it. Along the way you roped the boy you’ve been failing to protect into your plan and convinced him to not only join you but hurt my men along the way. If you were me, what would you suggest I do? If you were actually Alex’s father, how would you suggest I have him hurt?”

Mark’s hand twitched. “Have him watch what you’re going to do to me. Then he’ll know not to try the same thing.”

“Oh, _come now_. I think we both understand I’m going to do worse than that to the child. He can start by watching your lesson, but eventually he will need his own. But fine. You aren’t going to tell me how to discipline Alex. What should I have done to you?”

“Anything obvious will be noticed Friday.” Yassen spoke from next to Alex. Walsh was shaking his head before the sentence was done.

“They aren’t going. It’s too much risk. They’d be even more desperate to escape than before, and desperation makes men reckless. At a certain point it doesn’t matter how terrible they know their fates will be if they have even a slight amount of hope that they can avoid them. And then I will be left to explain whatever chaos they create. No, I think this is the end of the line. They’re too much trouble to leave alive.”

Yassen frowned. “You have time to think about what to do with them.”

“I could,” Walsh acknowledged.

“But,” Mark said heavily.

“But I think at the least, one of you ought to be taught enough of a lesson that further escape is impossible. Or perhaps, one of you ought to be taken out of the picture entirely. Mark, do you remember who you said should die first?”

“Yes.”

“As do I. Do you want to change your answer?”

Yassen uncrossed his arms and spoke. “It might be better to do this later.”

Alex wondered if he was as unsure as to Mark’s answer as Alex. Mark had told Alex he’d been asked to choose which of them would watch the other die, but Alex had never asked Mark what his answer had been.

Either Yassen didn’t know, or he did, and the answer was Alex. The one thing Alex was sure about was Yassen wouldn’t care if he knew Mark had said himself.

“I think now is the best time to do this. Mark, would you like to tell Alex why you want to leave him in this mess alone? Is it simply because you can’t bear to watch a child be killed?”

Besides Alex, Yassen paused, before leaning back against the wall again.

_He didn’t care because it wasn’t going to be Alex._

Alex couldn’t breathe.

They were going to shoot Mark and he couldn’t do anything.

Mark didn’t so much as look back at Alex.

“Someone will find out you killed me,” Mark said.

“I suspect they’ll have their suspicions. But how often do you really think the British intelligence services are going to sneak into a country they have such tensions with only to track down me?”

Based on how little help MI6 had been in the past, Walsh was probably right.

“You can’t!” Alex said. In the corner of his eye, Yassen tilted his head almost imperceptibly to face him. But it was too late for Yassen’s threats to hold sway. Yassen couldn’t kill someone who was already dead.

“Shut up,” Mark said.

“Alex!” Walsh said, smiling for the first time. “Don’t be too mad at Mark for his answer. He probably meant to spare you some pain. My other thought was he knew himself too much of a coward to watch you die himself, so he’d have you bear that burden instead. I don’t know, and I don’t care to ask. Either way though, he should have known better than to trust me to take him at his word.”

“What?” Mark asked sharply.

“Mark, you had to guess that I’m not one to always respect my promises. Don’t worry, I’ll punish you too. Besides, I mean, you watching Alex killed.”

Alex froze mid-glare.

Beside him, Yassen was reaching for his gun.

“Now, now,” Walsh admonished. “Don’t move, Alex, and perhaps I’ll even save having you killed for tomorrow. Probably not, but you can hope.”

“Tomorrow, or later,” Mark pleaded. “Not now.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Mark. You bear the other punishment I have in mind like a man, without a word of protest, and I’ll spare Alex for now. Maybe I’ll even spare you both. Deal?”

“Yes,” Mark agreed quickly.

Walsh beckoned the man closest to him to take a step closer. “They tried to escape, and it was Mark’s idea. Seems prudent that the punishment should fit the crime. What would you say is a fitting crime for someone who causes problems by running away?”

The guard didn’t reply, but a dark smile crossed his face.

Alex had an idea as well.

He felt sick. “Don’t-,” he started to object.

“Shut up!”

The man who had snapped at Alex didn’t sound like Mark, but he was the only one it could be. Mark had turned back to face him for the first time. There was unmistakable fear in his expression.

Alex quieted.

Mark took a shaking breath. “Close your eyes. Be quiet and close your eyes. This will be fine.”

“ _Don’t_ look away, or he’ll be shot in both feet,” Walsh said.

Alex grit his teeth together and glared at Walsh.

“Look at your partner, Alex,” Walsh admonished.

The guard shot before there was a chance for further objections.

The gunshot in the room was louder than Alex had expected, despite all his previous experiences, and Alex flinched reflexively. Mark groaned, much the same way as he had when enduring his previous abuses, and clenched the side of the desk with his good hand.

It was done.

Yassen broke the silence. “Go check that the maid and kitchen staff didn’t hear the shot,” he told the guard. “Then stand outside the room until you’re needed.”

Mark slumped against the desk. Walsh, almost carelessly, leaned back against his chair, smiling all the while. “That was a good show. I’ll miss this, despite the trouble you’ve both brought. Watching Alex’s reaction was almost good enough to not kill him today. Ah, well. Almost.”

“I was quiet,” Mark groaned. “You said you’d spare him for now.”

Walsh laughed. “Yes. And I’m a liar. I think the one thing I said that was true was that you’re too much trouble to be kept alive.” Walsh looked at Alex. “Alex, you shouldn’t have gone along with his plan.”

Yassen’s presence beside him seemed suddenly ominous.

“Fuck you,” Alex said. He didn’t have anything to lose now.

“Very good,” Walsh said. “Any other words of wisdom?”

Alex didn’t bother to respond. Walsh’s expression twisted in a terrible mimic of a leer.

“Lovely. Well, do you want to hear how I plan to have you killed now that you’ve both tried to escape?” Walsh asked with a touch of poison in his tone.

There was no chance they could both run away again. There wasn’t even a chance one of them could escape. And Alex didn’t have it in him to delay this scene. “I don’t care.”

“No? You don’t even want to hear all the places I’m going to have you shot before I let you die?”

Against the desk, Mark let out a cry, and then moaned, weakly, “No.”

“Quiet,” Walsh snapped. He glared at Alex. “You don’t care how I’m going to kill you?”

Alex fixed his gaze at Mark and thought about apologizing that he hadn’t made them run the moment Alex had recognized Yassen. Somehow, though, Alex didn’t want to die making Walsh think he felt guilty about anything. “No.”

Fury crossed Walsh’s face. The room was quiet except for Mark’s suppressed gasps. “Then perhaps we should get this over with?”

\---

“No? You don’t even want to hear all the places I’m going to have you shot before I let you die?”

Yassen had been working for Conan Walsh for several months, and the man had been this furious only once before: when he had discovered the previous man spying on him.

And that man had died an extended, painful death.

It had been a long time since Yassen had felt this way - worried and apprehensive while simultaneously convinced that the situation would end in disaster. The last time he had felt this way, Alex had also been there.

Plans didn’t work around Alex Rider.

The injured agent moaned, “No,” as if his protests wouldn’t convince Walsh to kill Alex sooner.

Yassen’s employer snapped at the agent then asked Alex again, “You don’t care how I’m going to kill you?”

“No,” Alex said, and Yassen realized it was time to make a choice.

“Then perhaps we should get this over with?”

Alex didn’t say anything, just stared at the agent he had stayed for.

Walsh nodded, then took a deep breath. “It has been interesting to meet you, but you’ve become a bore. Gregorovich, kill him. Make it as quick or as slow as you want.”

“Kill me!” the older agent begged loudly.

The last time, there had been no warning before Cray had snapped, and Yassen had been lying on the floor, bleeding to what he thought then would be his death.

This time, Yassen wasn’t going to let it go to that point.

They were in a small room; they were all, relatively, close together. It didn’t take a master marksman to ensure that a single shot killed someone. Even if Yassen hadn’t been an expert in his craft, his target would have died instantly at this range.

Walsh was dead before he registered what had happened.

“Stay still,” Yassen said, before either Alex or Mark could react.

Neither of the spies spoke to break the quiet. Mark was frozen, staring at Yassen through what were probably involuntary tremors. Alex wasn’t frozen, but he wasn’t moving to get up, either. The boy simply looked at Yassen.

Yassen turned away.

There were considerations to be made. None of his plans had ended this way, with an MI6 agent hurt and bleeding out and Alex alive and unhurt and yet still in this place. Most of his plans had depended on the boy taking a chance to free himself.

It was an inconvenience that the older agent was there. He had changed the plans, had put Yassen in a position he had hoped to avoid. Yassen hadn’t been sure himself what he was going to be willing to do to protect the boy.

Apparently, he was willing to do a lot.

Yassen eyed the room critically. Some of the information in here would be more valuable than others – specifically, more useful to him as he reentered the world, unemployed.

Walsh’s laptop would be important. Walsh had kept digital receipts of his financial transactions, whether they were purchases of the expensive watches he enjoyed or masked purchases that helped fund terrorist activities. The latter, Yassen suspected, was more the reason Alex was here in the first place. Yassen closed the laptop and tucked it under his arm.

“I imagine you can’t walk,” Yassen said.

Mark, seemingly just holding back sounds of pain, only stared at him.

“Can I trust you both to stay here, then?” Yassen asked.

The older agent didn’t say anything.

“We’ll stay here,” Alex agreed.

The guard Yassen had ordered to check on the rest of the staff was walking back when Yassen left Walsh’s office. Yassen invited the man to join him as he walked to the security booth where the last man on duty was watching the footage.

He shot them both before they became a problem.

If the help heard, it wouldn’t be a problem. Yassen would be gone before the police arrived.

Yassen always kept the things he needed most in a bag ready to go. Today, as with many days in the past, that habit would be useful. He put Walsh’s laptop in his backpack, closed it, and swung it over his shoulder.

The two were sitting on the floor beside the desk when Yassen reentered the office. The jacket the boy had been wearing during the escape was now covered in blood, being pressed down by the agent against his foot.

Yassen ignored the two agents’ wary glances as he walked to Walsh’s corpse and pulled the man’s cell phone from his pocket.

“There’s no one else here that will pose a threat to you,” Yassen said. He walked to Mark and offered the man Walsh’s cell phone. The man took his hand off pressing the bloodied rag around his injuries just long enough to take the phone and set it next to him.

“If you call the authorities, they will be to you shortly. Of course, you may also find yourself arrested for spying in a foreign nation, so perhaps it is better you call your bosses and let them figure this out.”

“And then?” Mark asked. Despite the pain the man was clearly in, he seemed as if he were managing to retain some level of clear-headedness.

“I assume you’ll get medical care and transported out of the country.” Yassen stared back. “And perhaps you’ll be relegated to desk work in the future.”

Mark ignored the jibe. “This doesn’t make up for all the things you’ve done.”

Yassen didn’t bother to respond to that. He turned his attention to Alex. “Time to go back to the people who almost sentenced you to death.”

The boy shook his head. “No. I’m not going back to MI6.”

“Good,” the older agent bit out.

Yassen ignored the man. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” The boy bit his lip as if he was considering what to say. “I need to check an email I set up.”

“Why?”

Mark let out and then immediately tried to suppress a pained gasp.

“Can you help?” Alex asked, his attention stolen back to his partner.

“Why do you need to check an email?” Yassen asked again.

Alex turned to kneel by the older agent, his attention on Mark once again. “You alright?”

“We need to get help,” Mark muttered.

The boy looked up at him. “Can you make sure he’s alright?”

He should be leaving soon.

Alex seemed to expect an answer.

Yassen glanced at Mark. “Do you want help?”

The older agent grimaced and looked down at his foot.

“ _Yes,”_ Alex emphasized.

“You can look,” Mark muttered.

Yassen shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and leaned down to examine the injury.

The man’s foot was covered in blood, but the shot, despite coming from such close range, hadn’t hit the worst spots it could. Yassen wrapped the rag around the foot again. “Hold it down here. Apply pressure. You’ll be fine if you get medical care within a few hours. It may be a while before you can walk.” And the man would probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but he could find that out on his own time.

The older agent applied pressure where indicated wordlessly.

“Alex,” Yassen said. “Why do you need to access your email?”

“Don’t answer him,” Mark said.

Alex glanced between the two men. “There should be an address.” Alex shrugged. “Somewhere in Wales. I don’t know where I’m going but she should have emailed it to me.”

“Walsh’s computer is in my bag,” Yassen tilted his head at his bag until he saw Alex turn to it. “You can use the guest profile to log on, but MI6 will be watching your email,” Yassen warned.

“No, they won’t.”

The older agent gave a gasp of pain, then recovered himself to say, “MI6 watches more than you realize.”

“After the last time with SCORPIA, I set this email up privately.”

“SCORPIA?” Mark asked, alarmed.

Alex didn’t say anything. Yassen, after a moment of consideration, didn’t question the boy further. Alex went to the bag to get the laptop and once he’d retrieved it, he sat at the desk where Mark had been sitting earlier, ignoring the corpse across from him. He typed away quietly for a minute.

Mark was staring intensely at Yassen, as if he were trying to read his motives. Yassen stared back, blankly.

It took only a moment. Alex closed the laptop and rotated in his chair to face them. “I know where I’m going.”

“Do you need a ride?”

Mark recoiled. Alex glanced back at his partner, but didn’t say anything

“I can get you to your destination.”

“There’s a border. I don’t have a passport.”

That was expected. Alex had already mentioned it was somewhere in Wales. “We can work around that.”

“He’s not going,” Mark said.

“Ok,” Alex said.

Yassen nodded. “If it’s in Wales, I can get you there by tomorrow.”

The older agent muffled a groan and then objected. “Alex, you’re not going with him! He’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be alright,” Alex said.

“You don’t know what he’ll do!” the man spit out. “Maybe he’ll decide you’re more useful as a hostage.”

Yassen restrained himself from walking out then. “The child who took down SCORPIA is smart enough to know when someone should not be trusted with their life.”

Mark’s eyes widened, and then immediately narrowed. It was possible the man knew even less than Yassen had suspected. “You used to work for SCORPIA.”

“Yes. And I was trained by an agent for MI6. I’m allowed to have my own allegiances.” Yassen crossed the room to take the phone from next to Mark. The other man clutched at the phone, but he was in pain and didn’t have the strength to make it into a struggle. Yassen tossed the phone at Alex, who caught it instinctively. “If his calling MI6 puts you in danger, perhaps you should keep that.”

“Alex,” Mark muttered. “Give it back. You’re staying here until we get help. I can help you get where you’re going after that.”

“Yes, you’re in a condition to help Alex evade MI6’s attention,” Yassen replied.

Mark glowered. “And whose fault is that?”

“Can you both _stop_?”

Yassen silently stared down the older agent as Alex chewed his lip before finding his words. “Mark, I’m going to be fine. I just want to go back to my friend. She’s in Wales and now I know the address, and he’s probably the fastest way to get there. MI6 might send me there eventually but if anything else has come up that they could use me for, they’ll just send me back out into the field.”

“We’ll stop them. We’ll get you home,” Mark promised.

Alex gave a single shake of his head. “You should really be focused on getting medical attention. And I’m really sorry,” he told the older agent. “No one would have known who you were without me.” Foolishly, the boy handed the phone back to the man. “Call for help, but please don’t say where I’m going or who I’m with. They’ll have me soon, but I don’t want armed men waiting for me. Maybe I’ll even see you again soon. Just please don’t say where I’m going.”

Mark was wide-eyed. “He could kill you and no one will know where to find you.”

“I promise he won’t,” Alex said. The boy looked at him. “Right?”

“I’m going to leave now,” Yassen replied, not bothering to answer the question. “Do you still want a ride?”

“Yeah.” Alex paused. “Just, wait one minute.” The boy dashed behind the desk and managed to open the desk drawer without touching Walsh’s body. He pulled out the two letters they’d written. “I’m going to destroy these. So the authorities don’t find us.”

“Alex,” Mark pleaded once again.

“Quiet, or I will take him hostage,” Yassen said.

Alex frowned. “I just want to get to my friend,” he told the older agent again. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you done?” Yassen asked.

“Yeah.” 

Yassen nodded, collected his bag and the laptop, and turned to leave once again. For better or worse, behind him the agent was quiet.

As he walked down the stairs, Alex a step behind, the maid who was in the main hall glanced up at them. “Don’t,” Alex muttered behind him.

“I’ve already taken care of the problem,” Yassen said. There was no need to exacerbate the mess here by killing those who weren’t causing problems.

And indeed, the maid let them walk out of the house without problem.

Yassen took the keys to the most inexpensive car outside the garage. Inside the garage, he unlocked the car and left his bag in the backseat. When he was seated, he started the car, before glancing at the passenger side. Alex was still standing outside the car, looking uncertain. Seeing Yassen’s glance through the window, the boy opened the door. He didn’t get inside the car.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

The agent.

“You can call him from my phone once we’re away from here.”

And then Yassen would destroy the phone. It wouldn’t be necessary as he found a new place to work, and it would be another tie to this now destroyed job.

Alex continued to stand in the open door of the car, hesitating. “He didn’t deserve that.”

Few people deserved their fates, in Yassen’s experience.

“We need to go,” Yassen said instead. “I can’t help you if the authorities catch up with us.”

Alex took a breath and then climbed inside.

\---

Alex was quiet on their car ride to Dublin except for a brief call to Walsh’s phone to check on his partner. After hearing that MI6 agents were coming to retrieve Mark, Alex returned the phone to Yassen. The boy followed without questions when Yassen procured a helicopter and piloted them across the sea to Wales. Other than repeating the address for Yassen to put into the GPS of the car he rented from a less than reputable looking shop in the town they landed in, Alex didn’t talk.

Yassen wasn’t talkative at the best of times, so the quiet was a chance to plan his next move - his next move besides taking Alex to the MI6 safehouse where his friend was seemingly being held hostage.

He had a computer he could break into easily enough that held business transactions between Conan Walsh and a multitude of people and entities both legal and not, and that would be his starting point. In fact, the more Yassen thought about it, some of the transactions Walsh had helped to negotiate and run had been possible only due to the secrecy Walsh could promise. If someone appeared who threatened to reveal certain transactions to certain governments, some individuals may be willing to pay quite a sum to protect their anonymity.

There was the chance this could work out in Yassen’s favor after all.

He would have to tread carefully, but he always did.

The sun was in its descent and the sky was tinted purple when they stopped for gas. According to the GPS, they had just under 4 hours left to travel.

After the minute it took to fill the car’s tank, Yassen got back into the car and turned to Alex. It was probably not possible to make the rest of the drive without filling up the tank again with such an old model car, at least not if Yassen was going to be assured that after he dropped the boy off he could make a steady retreat. Still, it would be faster if they didn’t have to stop again for a while.

Yassen was about to ask if Alex needed anything before they got going again when Alex turned from his absent stare out the window.

“Are we going?” Alex asked.

“Yes,” Yassen said. “It would be better if we did not stop again, and then only quickly. Already it will be later when we arrive. Do you need anything now?”

“No.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I’m fine,” Alex said.

“I’ve heard you say that already in the past days.”

Alex stared at him, expressionlessly. “What do you want me to say? I don’t care if I eat anything now, I just want to be with Jack.”

“And you’re fine otherwise?”

“I’ve been through worse.” When Yassen didn’t respond or reach to start the car, Alex expanded. “I’m alive and you’re bringing me where I want to go, so I’m fine. Really.”

“You were held captive for several days in conditions that were enough to leave an adult crying.”

Alex frowned. “Because of you. And I cried too. Also because of you.”

“Yes.” For the first time, Yassen wondered if there might have been a way to appease Conan that day without torturing Alex. To avoid making it worse, Yassen hadn’t argued in the moment. Perhaps it could have spared them both another terrible moment in their history if Yassen had objected.

Probably not. Conan Walsh wasn’t a kind man, nor one to be reasoned with easily.

Alex glanced out the window, and when he turned back his face was once again impossible to read. “Can we just go?”

The next hour passed in the same quiet as the last, until they were driving in darkness along a not too busy motorway. Alex stared out the passenger window, quiet. The boy would likely be happy to continue the rest of the journey without talking. But there were questions on Yassen’s mind.

“Your friend that we are going to. She knows what you do?”

In the corner of his eye, Yassen saw Alex draw his arms tight against his body. “Yes.”

“She lets it happen?”

“No.”

Alex didn’t expand on that answer, but Yassen could draw his own conclusions. Alex’s friend didn’t allow MI6 to use Alex, but she didn’t have the power to say no, either.

“You said MI6 didn’t give you a choice to not work for them.”

Alex, bizarrely, scoffed. “That’s what Mark wanted to talk about too. He thought he could help me if we escaped.”

“Maybe he still can. Do you have his number? A way to contact him outside of asking MI6?”

“No.”

Hearing the tightness in Alex’s voice, Yassen waited a while before resuming the conversation. Alex didn’t turn to face him in the meantime, and he didn’t contribute any questions or statements of his own.

“How did this all happen?” Yassen asked, perhaps ten minutes later.

“You killed Ian.” There was no malice in the boy’s tone. “Apparently he left MI6 in charge of my care. They were delighted.”

“You think your uncle left you alone in his will to an intelligence agency.”

“That’s what they told me.”

Yassen thought through what he knew of the situation. “I suppose it’s possible.”

Either his word choice or his tone revealed something else. Or perhaps Alex just wanted to latch onto any story that didn’t corroborate MI6’s official version of Ian Rider’s death.

Alex still didn’t look at him. “You don’t think so?”

“It seems unlikely.”

It took a long time for Alex to continue their conversation. Yassen wasn’t in a rush. Alex would tell him if he wanted, and if he didn’t, that was his choice.

That didn’t mean Yassen didn’t have a preference between the two choices.

“They threatened to deport Jack.”

“Your friend?”

“Yeah. The first time, or the first few times, they threatened to deport her. And then things got more complicated, and they threatened me with people getting hurt if I didn’t help. Or I found trouble on my own.” Alex glanced over for the first time. “The head of Special Operations told me I was picking up a need for danger. And I thought she was wrong. She was wrong when she said it. I was just rescuing Jack from SCORPIA, after they pretended to kill her. But she might also be right. I didn’t want to take this mission, but I was never going to really protest. I wasn’t going to fight back. I knew they were going to win and then they stuck Jack in a safehouse ‘for her protection’ and I didn’t do anything about it because I was helping people and MI6 is more powerful than me, but maybe I also wanted to do this.”

“Do you think you would have joined them if they’d given you a choice?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t really matter if you did,” Yassen said. “You are still, by all legal definitions, a child. They shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“But it might have been better if I’d at least wanted to be there.”

“Perhaps.”

Legally, it would not have made a difference. It would have been no better to force a reluctant teenager into the situations Alex had faced than to allow a stupid teenager to wander into those same situations due to noble intentions.

It might have eased Yassen’s conscious, if he’d been worried about such a thing, if the teenager he’d tortured had at least consented to be in a situation where torture was possible.

“I might want to help MI6, later,” Alex said, quietly. “I’m good at it. But I hate that they never gave me a choice.”

“What are you going to do about it, if they try to force you to help them again?”

Alex shrugged, helplessly.

“Perhaps you should find the agent you were with,” Yassen said. “if he was offering to help.”

“He’d probably be fired.”

Yassen smiled. “After his most recent experiences on the job, he may not regret that.”

Alex gave a dark smirk before turning away again. Yassen allowed himself to fully focus on driving for a while, and soon after, he realized Alex had dozed off.

The rest of the drive was calm.

It was almost midnight when Yassen parked down the street from the house marked on the GPS. When Alex had called earlier, the older agent had promised he hadn’t told MI6 where Alex was headed, and right now Yassen saw no reason to doubt that. The street was empty of the car models that typically indicated an intelligence presence. No doubt this safehouse had a couple guards stationed inside, but there were no signs of a house in lockdown or high alert. Although appearances could be deceiving, Yassen doubted he was in danger.

“Alex,” Yassen said.

The boy woke easily. He opened his eyes, realized they were parked, and his eyes widened. “We’re here?”

“Almost.”

The boy was suddenly visibly wary.

“The house is down the street,” Yassen admitted. “It’s the second from the end. We’ll talk for just a minute, and then you can go to your friend.”

Alex said nothing.

“Find Mark’s number.”

“Why?”

“He’s going to help you. He said he would, , and after your experiences together I think it’s likely he will try. And if he can’t, perhaps I can.” Yassen pressed his cell phone into Alex’s hand. “Keep this safe. I will text you from another phone soon, to see what you need.”

“You’ll help me with MI6?”

Yassen nodded.

Alex hesitated. His eyes flickered between Yassen’s and the house.

“When I text you, you can choose to text me back. If you do, I can help you” Yassen said.

“Ok,” Alex responded. Which wasn’t exactly agreement, but Yassen didn’t expect it would be. Whatever else their connection was, it would never be simple. It might never extend so far as wholehearted agreement and trust.

For now, ok would have to be enough.

Yassen let his gaze obviously wander to the house as well. “Go,” Yassen said.

Alex was out of the car without another word.

Yassen intended to stay just long enough to see Alex to safety.

Alex reached the house in question and hesitated only a second before walking up to the door and knocking. A man opened the door, seemingly confused by the late intrusion. The man looked every bit the MI6 agent mold that Yassen expected.

And then a woman with red hair rushed out from behind the man to engulf Alex in a hug.

If Conan Walsh had his way, this scene wouldn’t have ever happened. If many other men and women with ambitions of greater riches or grandeur had succeeded in their plans, this scene wouldn’t have ever happened. Plans didn’t work around Alex Rider.

Somehow, Yassen rather thought MI6’s plans for Alex Rider would end the same way: trampled underfoot a streak of luck and clever thinking, like a hand of bad cards.


End file.
